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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 








IN GOD’S COUNTRY 



















IN GOD’S COUNTRY 

CATHOLIC STORIES OF HOME AND ABROAD 


BY 

NEIL BOYTON, S.J. 

Author of “Cobra Island ” 




New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

Publishers of Benziger’s Magazine 

1923 




































Copyright 1923, by Benziger Brothers 


• > 


Printed in the United States of America 


NOV 28 '23 

©C1A7CC043 


To 

Aunt Polly 


Acknowledgement is hereby thankfully made to the 
following periodicals for their courtesy in permitting the 
inclusion of certain stories in this collection : The Ave 
Maria , Boys Life (D. Appleton & Co.), Extension Maga¬ 
zine , Magnificat, Messenger of the Sacred Heart , Pilgrim 
of Our Lady of Martyrs , The Queen s Work , and The 

Rosary Magazine. 


CONTENTS 


PART I—IN GOD’S COUNTRY 

PAGE 

The Dream Mother.9 

Golden Autumn.23 

Flowers 42 

The Last Lie.49 

The Impotent Powers.65 

The True Captain.73 

Dora Dare’s Last Success . 86 

The Other Boy.93 

Much Fruit.107 

The True Blue Star.114 

This Night.122 

As the Clock Strikes.139 

The Sin of Simon Gold.145 

Distinguished Ancestry.152 

The Last Pew.164 

The Right Decision.180 

The Kindly Old Gentleman.190 

The Desired Day.200 

A Taste of Jug.209 

The Small Angel.223 

Under the ^Egis.232 

PART II—IN XAVIER LANDS 

The Sure and Truly Gateway.239 

Prayer.248 

The Carpenter of God.260 


7 

























8 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Mirza, the Mischievous .271 

The Cobra’s Hood .282 

The Blessed Dice.294 

The Coming of America.302 

In the Dak Bungalow .316 

Fellow Voyagers.323 

Her Favorite Tongue.332 

The Cords of Adam .343 

A Mass for the Missions.357 

Ginger Pup .366 

The Tilted Cross .381 

The Bishop’s Stipend.386 

The Lost Door.397 















Part I 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


THE DREAM MOTHER 

T HE new mother rose above her weakness to 
whisper hungrily: “Let me—let me see 
him.” But she had to wait while the bit of red 
rubber was being bathed and weighed. And when 
finally the tiny bundle, fresh as a rosebud, was 
laid in her longing arms, she had barely strength 
enough to beg: “Sister Immaculata, name him 
for his father, but let his other name be Mary. 
Aw, Sister, it’s hard to go, knowing—” She 
broke off into an agonizing prayer, “0, most lov¬ 
ing Mother Mary, shield him, or take him. You 
must.” 

Sister, who knew of the mixed marriage, lifted 

the sleeping baby, and, holding him once to his 

mother’s lips, carried him out of the ward. 

***** 

Otis Mary Scott was an imaginative, unkempt 
urchin of eight when the woman he had always 
called “Mommer” snapped the truth at him. 
In fact, that day the floodgates of her pent-up 
jealousy burst and she told him more, and though 

9 




10 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


he could not understand all the bitter words that 
poured out, he did grasp two crimes that his 
real mother had been guilty of—she had been 
pretty, and she had been a 4 ‘ Rumancat ’lie. ’’ 
Child as he was, he sensed that these were of¬ 
fenses that the inflamed woman across the smoky 
kitchen could never, never forgive. 

Besides this silent boy, her Rip Yan Winkle 
husband had brought her little all the years but 
a persistent knack of losing jobs. But when the 
Great War came, and its hungry demand for 
shells, shells, and yet more shells, gave work to 
the incompetent even, it really seemed that her 
“man” had downed his habit. 

This appeared to be confirmed the night he 
came home from Du Pont City and rather shame¬ 
facedly confessed to the raise he had received 
that week. But three days later one of those 
mysterious explosions occurred at the plant, and 
when they told her that funeral expenses would 
be unnecessary, the widow thanked God; for all 
she had to face the world with was thirty-eight 
dollars and five small children—the tallest of 
them not her own. 

Before the thirty-eight dollars had dwindled 
into that many cents, Uncle Jim appeared, fairy¬ 
godfatherlike, and offered to set her up in busi¬ 
ness. So they bought out a tiny candy store that 
nestled in the shadow of a stately public school. 
A fat Jewish family, and many relatives, occupied 
all upstairs, and the Scotts squeezed into a dry- 
goods-box room, which as regular as the clock 
went round, was dormitory, living-room, kitchen, 
dining-room, and dormitory again. 


THE DREAM MOTHER 


11 


Before the swinging door, was an atmosphere 
of cheap baseballs, jacks, chewing gum in jars, 
striped candy, pencils, patriotic-covered pads, 
and lurid, fly-specked paper series. And it was 
from the meager profit reaped here—and a little 
neighborhood washing—that the widow fed and 
patched six. 

But the times scowled at tiny candy stores, and 
the gaunt gray wolf crept holder and bolder to¬ 
ward the swinging door. More washing was 
taken in, and Otis, on the plea of having a heavy 
cold, was kept home from school to tend the 
counter. 

Then a horrible afternoon came, when “Mom- 
mer,” with a big basket of washing in her arms, 
appeared all unexpectedly at the shop door, and 
caught the famished Otis actually eating stock! 

She did not whip him—he had expected that—• 
but she did something that sent a thrill of cold 
terror through him. She left the wicker basket 
there in the doorway—so that the little girl who 
came in for “two cents * worth of them” had to 
skip over it—and disappeared into the back 
room. When the girl had gone, “Mommer” stood 
suddenly by the shop door and she held his dirty 
bluish overcoat and cap in her hand. 

“Put ’em on.” She spoke as low as though she 
were afraid of disturbing a sick child. “If you’re 
old ^enough to steal an honest woman’s bread, 
Otis Scott, you’re old enough to earn your own.” 

And as a final fling, as he stood silent and open- 
mouthed, with his hands on the sticky knob, “Let 
that Mary of yours protect you. I heard tell your 



12 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


pansy-faced mother prayed that. Out with you, 
Otis Mary Scotty’ 

The boy stumbled over the basket of soiled 
linen, and was out into the murky city. 

He would not be nine till May. 

It was evening when he crept back and flat¬ 
tened his nose against the show window. “Mom- 
mer,” with Luther, the baby, held casually over 
her free arm, was weighing out a nickel’s worth 
of peppermints for a small boy. Her metallic 
voice was telling the purchaser to leave that mitt 
severely alone, unless his intentions were serious. 

Otis had not the courage to push wide the half¬ 
open door, and he sank back into the deepening 
night. With a deadly fear of being arrested if 
he stopped, he kept walking. 

Later the streets grew lonesomer, shadows 
more fearful; a church bell, high up in the black¬ 
ness of a neighboring tower, boomed eleven, and 
still his tired legs carried him westward. Once, 
under the hard white glare of a street corner 
ahead, he saw the figure of a big man and caught 
the gleam of his buttons, and his heart did not 
settle back till he was swallowed up in the wel¬ 
come obscurity of a narrow alley. 

It was still fearsomely dark when he arrived at 
Uncle Jim’s. Three hostile black windows and 
a black doorway looked hostilely down on him, 
but he was too leg-weary even to mind their dis¬ 
pleasure, and he dropped like a bomb on the up¬ 
per of the two cold steps. 

It was huddling there that he dreamt the 
dream for the first time. And this was what he 
dreamt: 


THE DREAM MOTHER 


13 


Someone robed in faint bine and dim white was 
stooping near, and her very presence brought 
him warmth and that sweet sense of protection. 
He was striving, striving to look up into the face 
of this nice someone and tell her he wanted to go 
home. 

Then it was raw morning, and Uncle Jim, his 
dented dinner pail still on his arm, was bending 
over him and shaking him, saying: “Otis! Why, 
darn my socks, it’s little Otis!’ ’ 

His aunt appeared, her hair straggling over 
the shoulders of a shabby pink kimono, and both 
of them were leading him into the yellow gleam 
of a kitchen. 

He told them, the sleep hanging heavy upon 
him; but they laughed harshly, and said of course 
not, he was just a little goose of a runaway. 

But Uncle Jim heard a distant whistle and he 
swore, and told his wife hurriedly to put the kid 
to bed and he would see “Otis’s widow.” 

That night, when Uncle Jim got home late, he 
looked angry and called his wife aside. Aunt 
Martha’s voice rose angrily after a few moments, 
and Otis, sitting by the kitchen window with 
i ‘ Punky ’ ’ purring in his lap, heard her say: 

“That woman’s not going to dump him on us. 
After all you done, too! ’ ’ 

And once Uncle Jim distinctly said: “Martha, 
it’s a d—n shame.” 

The following morning Aunt Martha gave the 
boy a potato sack and sent him out to pick coal 
from the neighboring tracks. 

A forenoon came; Otis was washed thoroughly; 
and Auntie, dressed in her faded best, took him 


14 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


to an immense park-like place and into a high 
granite building. 

Otis found himself, like all the other little boys, 
standing bashfully in a great warm room, a 
blanket about him, and in came brisk doctors. 
Each doctor examined him, and asked many ques¬ 
tions ; most of them Aunt Martha answered 
eagerly. 

After they reached home she gave Otis money 
to buy the ‘ ‘ skatamobile ’ ’ that he had long cov¬ 
eted in the show window of the corner store. 

When Uncle Jim arrived Aunt Martha nodded 
to him, and he did not once tell Otis to kick that 
white cat out the door. So the boy and the dis¬ 
reputable “Punky” had a glorious time up till 
bedtime. 

And that night again his dream came. Again 
the dim fair presence seemed close by, satisfying 
him, like the scent of rare perfume. He tried so 
hard to look up into the face, which he knew must 
be surpassingly fair, that he found himself awake 
and crying for very joy. He heard against the 
window pane the patter, patter of rain. 

All morning it rained, as spring rains do, and 
in the middle of the miserable afternoon Auntie 
made Otis dress in a brand-new blue suit. When 
he was done she produced a smooth white tie 
that made him clap his hands. 

They took the trolley and were back again in 
the parklike place. Other boys of his own size, 
shy and silent and in new suits, were there too. 

There appeared a stout young person in cool 
white, and her questions gushed so rapidly that 
even Aunt Martha’s answers seemed hardly to 


THE DREAM MOTHER 


15 


make a break in that flow. Otis had never heard 
anybody talk so continuously, even “Mommer” 
when she was angry, and he watched her inces¬ 
sant lips solemnly, wondering how she could do 
it. 

Finally Auntie rose and, saying, “Otis must be 
a good little boy to Miss Kenneth,’’ she did a 
most unexpected thing. She actually bent over— 
his arm flew up wardingly—and her lips brushed 
his cheek. 

Then she moved serenely away in the van of 
the other women, and Otis, who got up to follow, 
found his shoulder held and himself listening to 
the unintelligible stream of words that the gover¬ 
ness was pouring impartially over all the crying 
little boys. 

That night, after the tasteless, gulped supper, 
and stretched down between the comfy sheets, 
with the blue counterpane pulled close up over 
his ear, Otis drifted off; and it was so exceedingly 
pleasant to lie there that it was even unneces¬ 
sary to try and see the face that he knew watched 
above him. 

He waited politely several days, expecting 
Aunt Martha, or possibly “Mommer” even, 
would come and take him home, but they never 
did; and one afternoon, when Miss Kenneth 
walked suspectingly into the deserted classroom, 
she discovered Otis and, being motherwise, folded 
the lonely lad to her ample bosom. There she 
learnt what she already knew. 

But she told him only babies and little girls 
did that. He was to be brave and learn many 
things, for he would live at Langdon Home till 


16 


IN GOD'S COUNTRY 


he was eighteen and a big man. Then she asked 
him his full name. 

“Mary!” she laughed, “stop, thief! Why, 
that's my name! How did you ever come to get 
it, boy?” 

“I dunno. But, please, ma'am, some ’un gave 
it to me when I was a little kid.” 

“Well, Mr. Mary, I think I’ll call you ‘ China' 
hereafter. With your blue eyes and your white 
skin you look like a rare bit of Peking porcelain. 
So, see here, China—out on the playgrounds you 
trot, and don't you ever dare to cry again, or 
you'll surely crack.” 

And out to the noisy playgrounds he went, 
where an older boy called: “Trying to crow with 
your govie, weren't you? I bet two bits she 
kissed yer.” But he indignantly denied the truth. 

Still, he secretly liked his governess all the 
better, now that he knew they had a name in com¬ 
mon. 

He struck up quick friendships on the big play¬ 
grounds. He raced. He wrestled. He tagged his 
neighbor and was tagged in turn. He batted hard 
and he fielded wretchedly. He shouted in the 
clear high-pitched voice that carried even above 
his companions' trebles. Wordy disputes arose 
over nothings and were settled there and then 
with tight little fists. And soon China—for his 
“govie” had called him that once in public and 
he was labeled for life—China was living the 
whole life of the Home, and “Mommer,” Auntie, 
Uncle Jim, and even “Punky,” had become blunt- 
edged memories. 

But back of all were the nights; for as soon as 



THE DREAM MOTHER 


17 


he pulled up the blue counterpane and straight¬ 
ened his legs into the white sheets and the lights 
were low, his dream might come. 

After a while he learnt to look forward to Sat¬ 
urday nights especially, for invariably on those 
nights she who was mother came in all her fair¬ 
ness. And even if he could never see into her face, 
her very nearness was comfort and satisfying 
and home. 

One Saturday afternoon, when they stood 
alone near the semideserted playgrounds, for it 
was an “outing day,” he tried timidly to tell his 
governess who would surely come with the dark. 
But she laughed loud, saying: “Nonsense! What 
a great big silly my China is! ’ ’ And he kept quiet, 
puzzled that Miss Kenneth, whom he liked al¬ 
most as much as he had “Punky,” did not under¬ 
stand. But he never tried to tell anyone else. 

So twinkled by three years at the Home. Good 
regular food had filled out his limbs, merging 
angles into plump curves, and visitors would 
look twice at Otis Scott. 

In school, lessons were attractive, and his 
eager little brain gulped in a surprising amount 
of knowledge^ and much misinformation. 

In the chapel, where the movies were shown 
regularly, occasionally he heard something of a 
man called “God.” 

With the terms he had been promoted, till now 
he was in a section that had a man for a prefect, 
and he could gain, for classwork and good con¬ 
duct, “degrees,” which gave him permission on 
holidays to go beyond the stone walls of the 
Home. 


18 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


The same older boy who had once called to him 
in the first days, was in another section, but he 
met Otis one evening, the night before an outing 
Saturday, and asked him to come to the movies 
tomorrow. 

Otis, to whom an outing day meant miles of 
aimless walking, was on the point of declining, 
for movies downtown are not free; but the older 
boy said, smiling: ‘ ‘ Oh, I ’ll pay all that, China. ’ ’ 

So Otis said “Sure,” and raced away. The 
older boy watched him across the playground. 

That night, in the dim of the dormitory, his 
dream came vividly. So vividly that early next 
morning it seemed the counterpane was become 
her blue cape, and in some nice sleepy way the 
white sheets were her encircling arms folded 
close about him, as though she were an anxious 
mother fearing threatening evil for her child. He 
deliberately kept his eyes closed to try and hold 
the sweet sensation of utter safety those shield¬ 
ing arms gave him. 

Afar he heard the ambulance of St. Mary’s 
Hospital go gonging down “The Ridge,” and 
later rang the bells of the big church, a square 
away from the Home, and he wondered, between 
asleep and awake, why this was so, as today was 
not Sunday—or was it? But dressing, he re¬ 
membered it was December eighth, an outing Sat¬ 
urday, and he had an unused “degree,” and he 
hoped the older boy would keep his promise. 

The older boy did. In fact, he sought for Otis 
right after breakfast. They walked slowly down 
Broad till the broad-rimmed hat on “Billy” Penn, 
atop the City Hall, was almost overhead. 


THE DREAM MOTHER 


19 


Then they loitered, whistling to the fluttering 
pigeons in the Square, and after that wormed 
through a crowd before a bird store and stood a 
long while watching the antics of a windowful of 
gray apes, “fresh from India,’’ as the placard 
stated. The older boy waited while Otis went in 
and gravely priced a mischievous baby monkey 
that seemed to have bilocation and a sense of 
humor combined. 

Regretfully they pushed themselves out of that 
crowd and entered holly-hung department stores. 
In each they visited two departments—the ath¬ 
letic goods and there where the red and white 
Santa Claus reigned. And in both of these de¬ 
partments they met and greeted other Home 
boys. 

After the toys came a stop at a marble font, 
Otis ordering his favorite strawberry ice-cream 
soda—and the older boy paid for both. 

Then The Imperial had opened her mirrored 
doors, and they were sitting erect in “two-bit” 
seats, watching the world of deeds that flickered 
by. Otis sat round-mouthed when woolly-trou¬ 
sered cowboys raced up the dusty ribbon of a road 
or white cotton shrapnel clouds burst over the 
jagged lines of trenches, but the older boy always 
leaned forward when there flashed on the screen 
a scene that Otis thought stupid, of an apart¬ 
ment or a garden nook. 

Finally they came blinking out into the sun¬ 
shine—the two lines of Christmas shoppers that 
overflowed Market Street looking unnatural to 
them at first—and they made a dinner of an- 


20 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


other soda. Strawberry ice cream again for 
Otis. 

Afterward they strolled up Broad, and the 
older boy suggested they should spend the after¬ 
noon in the suburbs, where there was a tiny 
stream—maybe they could catch some turtles— 
and a woods. 

Otis readily cried “Peachy.’’ 

They turned in the middle of the Square to 
cross Broad and get the Manayunk car. Otis 
was laughing up into the smiling face of the 
older boy and imitating an antic of Charlie Chap¬ 
lin that they had just seen at The Imperial, when 
someone from the curb shouted. The older boy 
jumped. 

Otis over his shoulder had one awful vision 
of a big blue automobile directly behind and the 
chalk face of the fur-coated chauffeur. 

Then out of great black depths he was strug¬ 
gling, struggling to the surface, and at a great 
distance, yet near his head, a gong kept clang¬ 
ing. More pitchy blackness. More struggles to 
the light. A wonderful display of fireworks— 
reds and greens and shooting golds. Then sud¬ 
denly, like turning a corner, agonizing pain, and 
people conversing over him. 

A sharp voice was commanding: “Try phon¬ 
ing the Home, please. The number on this coat 
is 317K.” 

Someone whispered. Then, “If you think so, 
Sister, better call the chaplain at once.” 

Then firm hands were cutting away his clothes 
where the fires of pain blazed, and Otis heard 


THE DREAM MOTHER 


21 


deep moaning; and after an age, he knew that he 
caused it. 

More firm hands lifted him onto something 
hard, which wheeled away, and it seemed to him 
he was going up in the elevator to see the toy 
department again. 

Then he knew he was where there was strong 
light, and the sharp voice spoke: “Well, Sister 
Immaculata, any ‘dope’?” 

And another voice, a gentle one, said: 

“Yes; a Home boy. The name is Scott.” 

Otis opened his eyes to see a white-tiled ceil¬ 
ing. Then an immense white headpiece sailed be¬ 
tween him and a part of the ceiling, and a hand 
was searching at his throat. 

The quiet voice was saying to someone: 
“There is no medal, no mark, but I feel sure, 
Father.” 

A face, clean-shaven, bent over saying: 
“Think. What’s your full name, my boy?” 

It took him a month to think. Finally he heard 
a whispered “ Otis-Mary-Scott, ” and after a 
week he realized he had been talking. 

The quiet voice again: “Otis Mary Scott! 
What!” And the great white headpiece com¬ 
pletely shut out the tiled ceiling. 

Then, “Father, I do believe it’s Nellie Scott’s 
child. He’d be about this age, and those were the 
names she insisted on you giving him. Sure, and 
it’s no wonder, no medal—at that Home. But 
quickly, Father, anoint.” 

“Just a moment, Doctor.” 

But for Otis the awful pain was fading, same 
as the tiled ceiling and the distant murmuring 


22 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


voices and the faint touch of hands. Someone 
was standing between all those things. Someone 
robed in the blue of an August sky was bending 
low and her white arms were not shielding any 
more but outstretched. 

As had been his dream custom all the years, 
Otis Mary Scott struggled to look up; and this 
time, though his eyes were closed tight, he began 
to see clearly the wonderful, welcoming face. 


GOLDEN AUTUMN 


T HEY appeared a couple of Babes in the 
Woods, standing there within the shelter of 
the sanctuary. She in white looked the slip of a 
girl. Yet to more than one of the assembled 
guests, as she repeated after Father Bailey the 
binding phrases—“from this day forth ,’ 9 “for 
better,” “in sickness”—it seemed as though she 
were robbing the cradle. 

Plighting their troth there before the Taber¬ 
nacle, each felt something of the sacredness of 
the sacrament pass into their souls, but one, with 
womanly intuition, sensed this more vividly than 
the other and her eyes were grave. 

As they were leaving Holy Family Church, she 
had wept as is the way with brides the world 
over, and he had laughed boyishly when she had 
confessed—“because I am so h-h-happy, Jim.” 

Thus, not unlike spring weather, they began to¬ 
gether their new uncertain life. 

# # # * * 

Jim still slept the deep sleep of youth, but 
Mother was busily awake, and her thoughts 
played over this dawning day of days. 

It was a luxury to lie there, gaze fixed on the 
ceiling, and just stroll along the many by-paths 
of memory that the day brought. 

23 


I 


24 IN GOD’S COUNTRY 

They were vagrant memories, jumbled out of 
their time sequence—will Henry and his family 
arrive at the church in time? Father Ed said 
seven-thirty for the Mass would be a more con¬ 
venient hour for Old Monsignor. Did he phone 
that new time to Henry last evening? Last 
evening the telegram came about Katie Leland. 
So she is dead in California! Poor tired soul, God 
rest her! She was the last of our wedding guests. 
Her own marriage to Pat Leland did not bring 
her much happiness. Katie wore that white 
cameo that was her mother’s, last time I saw her 
in St. Louis. That was the year of the Exposi¬ 
tion—’04 or ’05—and this is—My, how the years 
gather! Should Jim wear the white tie or his 
old one? Yes; I put the new white one out. . . . 

Mother turned her eyes and gazed inquiringly 
toward the dresser. The oval mirrors reflected 
the foot of the bed, a mountain ridge of clothes, 
the comb and silver-backed brushes, and Jim’s 
new white tie. Yes; she had. 

Mother’s view took in parts of the familiar 
room: every article a gateway to the past, an 
awakener of memories. She saw the gilt and red 
plush framed circles of her father’s and mother’s 
daguerreotypes. She recalled that time they were 
taken in Chicago, when a little girl, she had come 
up from Ottawa to view Lincoln’s body lying in 
solemn state in the black draped City Hall.... 
My William is growing to look like his grand¬ 
father. The crow’s feet around the eyes and the 
same whimsical set to his lips, thought Mother, 
but he has Jim’s ears. No; he does not look like 
Abe Lincoln! 


GOLDEN AUTUMN 


25 


Mother’s glance shifted, and into view swam 
the faded white wreath and the faded photo¬ 
graph of a baby face, sweetly grave, in its satin 
coffin. The eyes of the old woman softened and 
the eternal mother-lights glowed there. 

“My blessed Ann, happy these many, many 
years,” prayed Mother, and she found herself 
looking up at the red-robed statue, on which 
flickered shadows from the faithful lamp, burn¬ 
ing continuously at its base. It suddenly came 
to Mother that the face of the statue and the face 
of her long dead baby had a calmness in common 
—nay, rather, a triumph of peace was impressed 
on each still countenance. The unruffled aspect 
of those who have been victorious. 

“My little one is safe with You, dear Heart,” 
murmured Mother. She felt very happy despite 
the tears and the void that again filled her empty 
arm. The others had pach grown out of baby¬ 
hood, but Ann—Ann had never slept elsewhere. 
She had remained the soft babe, and many 
a night Mother dreamed the pleasant dream that 
her little one had returned to sleep at her side.... 

Afterward, there came to Mother’s attention 
the sight of the partly closed door of the walnut 
wardrobe, revealing the black silk dress with the 
genuine embroidery and the heirloom lace, that 
her daughter-in-law had carefully hung there last 
evening in anticipation of the day’s festivities. 
This sight brought Mother out of her memories 
and into the realities of the present. 

So the day had come—ran the refrain through 
Mother’s mind—after the ups and downs of all 
these years! 


26 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


Mother turned her head to survey her octogen¬ 
arian partner, sleeping the untroubled sleep of 
his grandchildren, and she thought of Jim’s 
declaration, made half a century ago: “Mother, 
you’ll have to do the worrying for this concern. 
I haven’t the time nor the inclination.” Jim, 
despite his snowy locks and weather-beaten 
cheeks, still kept the heart of a boy; a very 
young boy. And Mother smiled indulgently at 
her yokemate. He had always seemed her eldest 
boy, had Jim. Sometimes, Mother considered she 
had gone through life as a widow with an extra 
son, and this Jim was that boy. 

Then the demands of the day came back im¬ 
peratively and Mother moved about, dressing 
quietly for fear of wakening Jim before the last 
moment. “ He ’ll need his rest. He’s beginning 
to tire easily.” 

When the soft toned ship-clock, that Uncle 
Felix, home from a China voyage, had brought 
them on their silver wedding anniversary, struck 
five bells, Mother called gently, as though she was 
wakening one of the children for school. 

“Jim. Jim, it’s six-thirty and Father Ed’s 
Mass will start in an hour, dear.” 

Jim uttered a startled: “What’s that, 
Mother ? ’ 9 

Then he was awake and, for once, Jim, who 
never remembered birthdays or anniversaries, 
remembered this date. He caught her hand and 
drew her down, down till the two white-haired 
heads met. 

“This is one anniversary, I didn’t forget, did 


GOLDEN AUTUMN 


27 


I, Mother ?” He asked this boyishly, as if it was 
quite an accomplishment. 

Mother patted his head extravagantly. 

“Well, I stuck it out with you for fifty—” ex¬ 
claimed Jim. 

“The idea! So did I! Hush, and say your morn¬ 
ing prayers.’ ’ 

She held him up for a final examination, the 
same way she would have inspected any of her 
children years ago on Sunday mornings before 
their start for the Children’s Mass. 

She discovered a truant snowy lock and brushed 
it into place. 

“Did Father Ed tell you Katie Leland is dead 
in California?” asked Mother suddenly. “He re¬ 
ceived a telegram last evening from the Sisters 
at the Hospital.” 

4 ‘ Who’s she ? ” 

“Katie Morgan, who married Patrick Leland. 
Why, Jim, she was my bridesmaid!” 

“Oh, that old one!” exclaimed Jim, “She’s 
better off.” 

“Yes,” finished Mother; “Kate is. He gave 
her trouble. She was very lonely.” 

Mother gave his white tie an affectionate twist 
into place. 

“Come,” she announced, “you’re ready. I 
hear Willie with the car.” 

William’s wife was waiting for them at the foot 
of the stairs, tiny Kevin at her knee, but Jack 
and Jane brushed past their mother and rushed 
forward to cling to their grandparents’ hands 
and shout: “Grandma. Grandpa Jim. Happy 
anner-versary! Happy anner-versary! ” 


28 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


And the most plebeian-looking “Goulash” al¬ 
most loosened his tail wagging “many more of 
them” to Jim. Mother he politely ignored. As 
Jack put it, “See, Mom, old Goulie is a man’s 
dog. He likes only me and Grandpa Jim.” 

But Jane snuggled into her grandmother’s 
arms and consoled: “Never you mind, Grannie. 
I think ‘Goulash’ is perfectly horrid. Dogs are 
like boys, they aren’t polite.” The old woman 
had a fleeting thought that this slim grandchild 
was Ann come back to life again. 

They poured out the front door and all piled 
into the machine. Then there was an impatient 
wait, while Jane tore back to get her prayer-book. 
And there was a further delay, when Jane tri¬ 
umphantly discovered “Goulash” wedged be¬ 
tween Jim and his grandson. Unwilling Jack 
bore “the man’s dog,” a sad brown bundle of 
protest, to the dungeons of the family cellar. 

At Holy Family’s grouped on the church steps 
were Henry, his wife, and more bare-kneed 
grandchildren. Mother took Jim’s arm and 
clung to it a little bewildered in the midst of all 
the flood of greetings and congratulations that 
fell about them. 

Through the crowd strode Father Ed, and he 
threw an arm around his parents and drawing 
their heads close together, whispered: 

“I do not need to tell you two dear ones, for 
whom my Mass will be offered in a few minutes. I 
would be an ingrate son, indeed, if I gave it to 
any other this golden morning. But I must 
hurry in to vest. You know what a stickler Old 
Monsignor is for punctuality. ’Bye.” 


GOLDEN AUTUMN 


29 


Father Ed picked out Jack and Henry’s Victor 
and ordered them into the sacristy, or, he threat¬ 
ened, unrubrical as it was, Jane and her cousin 
Rita might have to serve. The mention of the 
threat was sufficient. 

Mother, leaning on Jim’s arm and walking 
with the solemn deliberativeness of the aged, led 
the little procession up the aisle. 

Up this same aisle half a century ago had 
marched the youthful Jim and his bride-elect, and 
of all who crowded the pews that distant morn¬ 
ing, these two alone survived. That forgotten 
congregation had heard the wedding peals of the 
organ hold a promise in their glad volume. Now 
from the sonorous organ loft rolled down the 
stately sounds that proclaimed to the ears of 
Mother and Jim and their descendants the tri¬ 
umph of a Te Deum. 

Something of the exultation of the Jubilee 
morning had taken possession of Mother and 
Jim. Yet despite its realization, as eagerly as 
any of their open-mouthed grandchildren, they 
watched the sanctuary door. Jim nudged Mother 
and said eagerly, “Here they come!” 

And they saw their grandsons, Jack and 
Victor, reverently dignified to the full extent of 
their four foot height, appear and Father Ed, in 
white and gold vestments come forth, escorted by 
Old Monsignor. 

The Mass of their Golden Anniversary began. 

Mother noticed Jim take out his rosary, and 
the beads started to slip one by one through his 
fingers. She never had been able to get him to 
take a prayer-book to church. So in her age-long 


30 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


protest she opened her venerable hook, but her 
eyes wonld wander from the page. She conld not 
keep them devoutly on her book, when her Father 
Ed said Mass. 

She watched this youngest son go up the steps 
and stoop, to kiss the altar, and her memories 
flew back to holy glimpses of other days in this 
old parish church. The long forgotten Benedic¬ 
tion Service, when Ed, smaller than his nephews, 
Jack or Victor, had made his first appearance in 
this sanctuary. With what loving hands had she 
sewed his bright red cassock! The many morn¬ 
ings the growing altar boy had served Old 
Monsignor ’s Mass and she had prayed the secret 
desire of her heart as she watched the boy come 
and go. But all these old memories were blotted 
out in the recollection of the vivid day, a decade 
ago, when with a proud Jim at her side, she had 
witnessed his First Home Mass, that morning 
after his return from student days in Eternal 
Rome. 

Heaven and the whole Heavenly Court had 
been very near that morning, when she and Jim 
had first experienced the hallowed joy of seeing 
one of their own, a priest forever. 

Her Father Ed looked so youthful and ener¬ 
getic, such a power for good and God, that 
Mother forgot her attempts at her prayer-book 
and caught herself repeating an old favorite bit 
of verse, 

“My son to Thy Son, Mary, Master and servitor, 
My son to Thy Son, Mary, linked forevermore.” 

Jim turned to her and asked: “What’s that you 
say, Mother?” 


GOLDEN AUTUMN 


31 


But she reproved him, raising her hand warn- 
ingly to her lips. And Jim obediently was silent. 

Little Victor rang the bell vigorously and Jim 
and Mother half knelt. William, kneeling with 
his wife and children in the next pew, got up and 
going into the Jubilarians’ pew assisted them to 
kneel. Again Victor shook the bell warningly and 
Jim bent his head, but Mother looked straight at 
the altar. She could not bow her head when 
Father Ed held Our Lord. 

She saw her priest bend over the corporal, then 
genuflect, lift the Lord on high, and sink down in 
adoration again. Holding the chalice of His 
Blood, he did the same, and Mother’s eyes filled 
with easy tears, till Father Ed appeared a golden 
and white blur and vague with the glory of 
candle light and immaculate altar linen. 

To Mother faith was close akin to vision, and 
it was easy to imagine the sanctuary overflowing 
with a bright host of veiled wings and familiar 
souls . . . the dear innumerable dead, or, rather, 
the glorious living, who had but preceded her 
and Jim Home. . . . Father and Mother, baby 
Ann, Francie, the other Eddie ... all the loved 
ones, the harvesting years brought nearer and 
nearer, closer and closer. 

And there came to her poignantly joyful the 
consoling realization that comes to all parents of 
priests. The realization that disarms death and 
robs Purgatory. The knowledge they have an in¬ 
tercessor of their own flesh and blood, who, while 
he lives, will offer daily propitiation. 

Somehow, as he always did, Jim understood 
Mother’s thoughts, and he reached his withered 


32 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


hand and found and pressed hers. Mother’s eyes 
again overflowed and she prayed for Father Ed, 
“ Bless his labors with abundant fruit, and may 
they to whom he has ministered be here below 
his joy and consolation, and in heaven his beauti¬ 
ful and everlasting crown.” 

But heaven was to seem nearer to Mother and 
Jim. 

Again Victor shook his tiny bell savagely and 
he and his cousin, Jack, bent reverently to recite, 
“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti. ...” 

Then William helped his father, and Henry put 
his strong arm under Mother’s, and thus es¬ 
corted by their men sons, the two approached the 
rails. 

Father Ed came down the steps, carrying the 
Master of Life in his dear hands, and grave Jack 
walked at his side. Father Ed hesitated a mo¬ 
ment, as though he were deciding a question of 
precedence. But he saw Jim nod toward Mother, 
so he first gave Holy Communion to her that 
golden morning. 

Neither Jim nor Mother made much of a formal 
Thanksgiving and yet in the sight of the angels 
of the sanctuary they made a wonderful one. Was 
not the priest and his servers, and the congrega¬ 
tion, their thanksgiving to the God they had 
served these fifty years! Were not they seeing 
their children and their children’s children in this 
year of Jubilee loyal to the Lord, Who had blessed 
fruitfully their long union! 

Later, a more tangible blessing surrounded the 
pair as the organ played them down the aisle and 
the morning sun, with rare timeliness, broke in 


GOLDEN AUTUMN 


33 


molten floods through the yellow stained-glass 
windows and enveloped the faithful Mother and 
Jim. In the golden aisle, the lines of age fell away 
and it was no longer an old man and an old woman 
who resembled each other; it was a groom and 
his bride who walked out of the House of God, 
with God’s benediction visibly upon them. 

At ten, William came around with the car and 
Mother and Jim got in, for Mother had demanded 
at the breakfast table to see “all our children 
to-day.’ 9 

So, first, William motored them to the green 
quietness of St. Paul’s Cemetery and Mother 
whispered to William, “Son, let us go to their 
graves alone to-day, just Jim and I.” 

The old couple walked to the familiar plot, and 
its plain granite cross, in whose friendly shadow 
they both knew within a few years they would 
sleep their long sleep, seemed to welcome their 
coming. 

There, under the three green mounds, lay the 
other children. Mother had never had any fears 
for Baby Ann, the family angel, who had flown 
back to God while yet she lisped. 

But under the next mound was Francie, the 
wilful lad. He who had wrung many an an¬ 
guished prayer from his parents’ hearts. His 
handsome face and headstrong ways had made 
them suffer and fear for the future. Yet, the good 
God, Mother recalled standing there by the 
graveside, had mercifully called Francie beyond 
the lure of temptation. 

Again, Mother remembered the afternoon al¬ 
most thirty years before, when she had opened 


34 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


the door and there was Jim, home hours ahead 
of his accustomed time, and with him stood 
Father Bailey. Jim’s face was pale, and with 
sudden mother-intuition, she had cried, “Jim, 
what’s wrong? It’s Francie!” 

And, as in all crises, she had turned to him for 
strength. He had taken her into his arms and 
spoken quietly, “Yes, Mother, it’s Francie. There 
has been an accident at his school.” 

Mother trembled again at the remembrances of 
the agonies of that moment and the dread of her 
husband’s next words. 

Jim had gone on, “But, thank God, Father 
Bailey here heard his confession and anointed 
him—and, Mother, be brave now, they are to 
bring our Francie home within the hour.” 

Mother repeated the fervent “His Will be 
done!” she had uttered that sad afternoon. 
Again, she re-experienced the rush of the sea of 
gratitude that broke over her heart. For the 
Sacred Heart had heard her constant prayer, 
“Take him rather than he stray from Thee!” 

Somehow now Jim read Mother’s thoughts, for 
he took her old hand and said: 

“Mother, Francie’s going Home taught me to 
say my beads. All our prayers could not have 
been in vain. 

“Francie would have been forty-five or forty- 
six now, wouldn’t he? God knows best. I like 
to remember him as the boy, don’t you, Mother? 
He resembled you. He was the handsomest of the 
children. Well, Mother—” Jim looked down at 
the three grass-grown mounds and then beyond, 
where two other mounds would rise, and con- 


GOLDEN AUTUMN 


35 


tinned: 4 ‘You know, Mother, as eternity comes it 
seems to me that our homecoming is going to be 
mighty pleasant. We’ll but leave William and 
Henry and Margaret Mary and Father Ed for a 
while to meet Ann and Francie and the other 
Eddie.” 

“And many, many more, Jim,” added Mother. 

“Yes,” corrected Jim, “afterward.” 

In peace they walked the few steps to the last 
mound. Here lay their firstborn, the other Eddie. 

Eddie, who had come to them on the first an¬ 
niversary of their wedding and who would have 
been forty-nine this morning. Oh! the plans and 
hopes they had dreamt for Eddie,! And their 
eldest himself had dreamt higher dreams. He 
had been a quiet imaginative boy, whose brown 
eyes had reflected the sacredness of the sanctuary 
and for whom priestly things had held a fascina¬ 
tion even before, a curly-polled midget, he was 
“on the altar” at Holy Family’s. 

Mother recalled: “Do you remember the night 
of his graduation from college when we walked 
home with Eddie? How proud you were. He was 
an inch taller than you, Jim, and he looked down 
as he told us it was the seminary for him in Sep¬ 
tember. Do you remember that, Jim?” 

“Of course, I do, Mother. But in August we 
laid him here. It was a bitter day, that Eve of 
the Assumption.” 

“And yet,” added Mother, “looking back, God 
took but to give, for didn’t He send us the other 
one in December, and he’s Father Ed now. Have 
you forgotten this morning, Jim? Ah! if one of 


36 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


our boys had not become a priest, I would have 
felt our lifework was incomplete. ” 

4 ‘Yes; it could have been worse,’’ commented 
Jim dryly; “look at Kate Morgan’s life. And 
old Mrs. Trelworthy, who lies somewhere over 
there. . . . That girl of hers is a bad egg, and 
the boys didn’t turn out. ...” 

But Mother was not paying attention to Jim. 
She saw William beckoning to them, and she re¬ 
membered they had yet another visit awaiting 
them that Jubilee morning. 

“Jim, it’s time to start for Margaret Mary. I 
told Willie to let us know. We must not keep 
her waiting.” 

She took Jim’s hand and together they went 
down the gravel path to where William’s ma¬ 
chine stood. 

Somehow, a visit to the graveside always 
strengthened Mother. It was like looking at the 
credit side of Life’s Ledger. Ann and Francie 
and the first Eddie were so safe for all eternity, 
that something of their safety was tangible: as 
tangible as the quiet and peace of a cloister. 

William drove them across the city to the Visi¬ 
tation and there was Margaret Mary, soft-voiced 
and holy. 

Already with her were Father Ed and several 
grandsons. Mother knew this daughter was 
Jim’s favorite, so she let him go forward to the 
grating first for the Jubilee greetings. 

Jim always seemed to slip his years in the 
presence of his “Maggie” and Mother sat talk¬ 
ing with Father Ed and watching the other 
younger Jim of half a century ago. 


GOLDEN AUTUMN 


37 


It seemed an unnecessary interruption when 
Reverend Mother and the whole Community filed 
in. And the nuns greeted Mother and Jim as 
though they were royalty. In truth, they were 
greater this golden day. 

Mother felt that here back of the grating was 
the same peace and quiet she had sensed in the 
sanctuary in the morning and had experienced by 
the graveside of the three an hour ago. Margaret 
Mary, her own daughter, was already Christ’s 
consecrated spouse, leading a happy life, as use¬ 
ful as it was hidden, and though Mother knew 
Margaret Mary would not be present to close 
their eyes when the summons came, that she 
would never look down on their dead faces, yet 
there was a great strength in the knowledge their 
“Little Flower’s’’ sacrifices and prayers would 
speed them through Purgatory’s flame. There 
was also . . . Father Ed. 

Again Jim shared Mother’s thoughts, for as 
they came away, after the happy congratulations 
were given, he said to her: “Well, old girl, be¬ 
tween Father Ed and Maggie I am thinking a 
strong wind of prayer will blow both of us over 
the ramparts of heaven.” 

Of the scores of letters that awaited them upon 
their return to their home, there was one, with 
a California postmark, that made Mother pause 
in her reading aloud to her husband. She said: 
“Wait a moment, Jim.” Then she went over its 
careful, old-fashioned copperplate a second time: 

“ . . . and so, dear girl, in a few days you are 
rounding the golden mark! I was your brides¬ 
maid that gay morning! 


38 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


“. . .1 can’t help reflecting while I write you 
my heartfelt congratulations, how the Good Lord 
has led me through many tribulations, and you 
through much happiness. Maybe, it is only fit¬ 
ting, for you became a part of Jim’s life—his 
better half. I was too proud to fit into Pat’s 
modest ambitions. He took to staying out and 
you know. . . . 

“I have had to earn my bread in the sweat of 
my brow. It’s true, Pat and I made it up at his 
last bedside in this hospital, and the good Sisters 
offered me a home here. And here I am for the 
few years longer. Neither Julia, my only living 
child, nor my granddaughters care a snap for me. 
Life has mellowed you. God forgive me! It has 
embittered me. And yet He is just. I took Pat 
‘for better, for worse’—and I should have been 
his helpmate. If I had been, I’d have had love 
in my old age. 

“ . . . You lucky woman! You and Jim . . .” 

It was at this part Mother remembered Jim, 
and glanced up to see him sitting patiently watch¬ 
ing her. 

She had in mind to omit this letter, but— 

“That telegram last evening beat her last 
letter across the continent,” observed Jim. 
“What’s Pat Leland’s widow got to say?” 

Mother reread this letter a third time and this 
time aloud. 

That evening the Golden Jubilee dinner at the 
long silver-laden table, circled with the happy 
faces of children and many grandchildren, brought 
their youth back to Mother and Jim. It was a 
choice merry circle that laughed about the An- 


GOLDEN AUTUMN 


39 


niversary table. Old Monsignor was the only 
guest. 

While the dessert dishes were being cleared 
away, Henry rose and in his hand were a sheaf of 
telegrams. He read them aloud: the Episcopal 
Blessing and well wishes of their Bishop; the con¬ 
gratulations of the Caseys, the John Yowells, Ju¬ 
nior, and other children of their wedding guests. 

Then their pastor arose to speak. 

“Mother and Jim,” began Old Monsignor, 
“your children have asked me to say what is in 
their hearts, all our hearts, this day of Jubilee. 
You were faithful to God through all these years, 
true to the troth you plighted long ago and the 
ever faithful God has not been outdone in generos¬ 
ity. On this day of your Jubilee you have seen 
some of your children safe in God’s Acre, and the 
rest, faithful to your training, in the world, the 
cloister, the sanctuary. Behold your jewels! 
Today in you is verified the promise made to the 
faithful bride and groom, for you see your chil¬ 
dren unto the third generation; your children’s 
children. 

“God has blessed them. We see your sons suc¬ 
ceed to their father’s business and they keep it 
successful. You have a competency and a home 
and love. But above all wealth has He blessed 
these children with the living memory of parents 
who were faithful, and when in the distant future 
the hour of departure for Home comes, you, 
Mother and Jim, may well say to Our Master, 
‘Lord, we have tried to instruct unto justice those 
whom You have intrusted to our care.’ You may 
with confidence expect to hear from the Lips 


40 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


Divine, ‘Well done, My good and faithful serv¬ 
ants ! ’ ’ 9 

Old Monsignor was finished, and in the little 
silence that rested around the table, Mother’s 
thoughts were on the letter she had read aloud to 
Jim an hour before. She felt very grateful at the 
picture of love and home that the dining room 
framed, and she contrasted it with that lonely 
grandmother, her bridesmaid of fifty years ago. 

She sought and covered Jim’s hand in a tight 
embrace as they rose from the dining table. 

Soon it was the night of their Golden Jubilee 
and Jim and Mother found themselves alone. 
Faint laughter and shouts told of the children’s 
bed hour. William’s voice, strangely like his 
father’s, called up the stairs and there was un¬ 
natural silence and an occasional giggle. It was 
good to be alone after the excitement of the day. 
At first they did not talk, there was no need. 
Through the years in which they had grown to re¬ 
semble each other, they had been given the gift 
of thinking similar thoughts, and at present their 
thoughts were not shot with sadness. 

Out through the window of their familiar room 
showed a silver and black street, that led down 
to the church and, beyond, to the cemetery. 
Mother got up and stood by the window and 
quickly Jim joined her. 

Some witchery of the moon dissolved away the 
wrinkles on the faces of Mother and Jim and as 
they looked into each other’s eyes, he saw a girl 
and she saw a youth and all life lay like a mist- 
hung valley below their feet. 

Half a century dropped away, with its joys and 


GOLDEN AUTUMN 


41 


its sorrows, its hopes and its disappointments, 
its trials and its graces, its gifts and its sacrifices, 
its achievements. They were back to the day on 
which they had started this life together. The 
boy, Jim, put his arm shieldingly around the girl, 
and he whispered as he had whispered once be¬ 
fore, “Little girl, I have you!” And Mother, her 
head on his shoulder, replied as she had in that 
long ago, “0 Jim, Jim, isn’t God good!” He 
petted her snowy hair and in their happiness 
words were useless. 

The old couple stood at the window, looking 
down the silver and black street that led to the 
church, God’s Acre—and the rewards of all 
happy eternity. No fears assailed their hearts, 
their faith was sight, life was a friend, whose pass¬ 
ing they welcomed, for both of them knew that 
shortly would dawn the day—the glorious day 
that would always be dawn, always be reunion— 
for they had been fruitful and faithful, and for 
such God does not wait for eternity to begin His 
reward. 

“ Isn’t God good, Jim!” repeated Mother, and 
Jim’s hand closed firmly over hers. Somehow, 
Jim always understood. 

Later, Mother was weeping on Jim’s shoulder 
and he laughed boyishly when she confessed, 
‘ 4 Because I am so h-h-happy, Jim.” 

# # # # # 

So, like golden Autumn, they waited the com¬ 
ing of the Harvester. 



FLOWERS 


H E KNEW he was saved. Joyfully he knew 
it. That instant there came over him the 
overpowering desire to withdraw and hide him¬ 
self. One, whom he instinctively clung to, carried 
him away, and, placing him among the atoning 
flames, said: 

i ‘Michael, my own, your sentence is very 
merciful. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I know that,” cried the soul, and he saw 
again the vision of his first facing the Allknow¬ 
ing, while his whole fifty years, complete to 
every forgotten detail, had snapped by in one 
crowded flash, and then shamed he had heard the 
verdict: “Michael, you may not enter My 
Presence again, till the charity of your friends 
shall cause five Masses to be said for you.” 

“Oh, He is the Merciful One,” repeated 
Michael: “Five Masses! Why, the charity of my 
friends will have them said within the week. And 
I deserved ten times ten times ten!” 

And his angel left him happy in his pain. 
Indeterminable ages later the angel came back 
and Michael asked reproachfully: 

“Why have my friends left me this long for¬ 
gotten?” 


42 


FLOWERS 


43 


His angel replied: 

“Haven’t you learnt there is no such word as 
‘long’ with us, and forgotten? No, you have not 
passed out of your friends’ memory yet. Come 
and see.” 

And he took Michael to a familiar street that 
many branching elms threw into shade. Under 
one of these elms they stood and Michael was ex¬ 
claiming: “Why, this is my—” 

But as he spoke a smart delivery auto drew 
into the curb near them and came to a stop. A 
slim boy in blue and brass jumped down and run¬ 
ning around to the back, threw open the shiny 
glass doors, diagonally across which were writ¬ 
ten in gold script a fashionable florist’s name. 
He lifted out an immense anchor of clustered 
rare roses, green leaves and silver-foil, and al¬ 
most fell over a matronly little miss, with a 
solemn baby brother in tow, who stood open- 
mouthed in his path. She yanked her solemn 
charge from under the feet of destruction and 
sniffed audibly at the passing perfume. 

“O-o-oh! ain’t that a beauty?” and then she 
confided to the driver, “That makes the sixth 
that’s come in the last hour, and there was one 
bigger’n that too,” and with a reminiscent sniff, 
“I just ’dore roses, don’t you?” 

She watched the florist’s boy cut across the 
lawn toward the splendid house, fronted with its 
row of gray granite columns. He stooped to set 
the anchor down and Michael noted, for the first 
time, the great bow of crape swaying like the 
tolling of a silent bell to each faint touch of the 
afternoon breeze. Before the boy could ring, a 


44 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


white-aproned maid appeared around the end of 
the wide piazza and to his cry 4 ‘Grady’s,” she 
motioned silence and nodded and took the set 
piece. The boy dashed back and Staff’s auto was 
gone. Said the angel: 

4 ‘You see, Michael, my own, your friends have 
not forgotten. That was for you. Come, we will 
see more of their remembrances.” 

So leaving the children, who still kept vigil and 
count, they entered, all unannounced, Michael’s 
home. 

Hushed voices came indistinctly from nearby, 
but the angel led his companion into the dark¬ 
ened drawing room. The maid, who had received 
the anchor, was crossing the threshold. She 
passed carefully around the massive silver-fix- 
tured coffin that flickered with the shadows six 
sentinel candles cast, and made room among the 
massed flowers for her burden. Many and costly 
were these floral remembrances that filled the 
rear of the room and, springtide-like, overflowed 
into the broad hallway and across and into the 
library. 

“See, Michael, these are of the charity of your 
friends.” The angel showed him the oblong white 
cards attached to each piece. “They have not for¬ 
gotten you. And this emblem of hope,” he caused 
Michael to approach the anchor of flowers, “read 
from whom this is.” 

Michael recognized on the card the big boyish 
scrawl he loved. 

“Even your dearest,” continued the angel, 
“have remembered you with flowers.” 


FLOWERS 


45 


“But why remember me with perishing flow¬ 
ers ?” said the sufferer who had come back. 
‘ 4 They don’t help me to see the vision of my 
Lord again.” 

And Michael Grady thought sorrowfully of the 
five releasing Masses that could be offered for a 
fraction of what the magnificent anchor had cost. 

“At least,” said the sympathizing guide, who 
knew where Michael’s thoughts flowed. “At 
least, tomorrow will bring you the relief of one 
Holy Sacrifice. Yours have arranged for the 
finest funeral ever held in the parish. They are 
draping the church now.” 

But Michael stopped his angel. He, who 
needed Masses that his bonds might be loosened, 
did not care to hear the details of all this solemn 
splendor that his kin and his friends were lavish¬ 
ing on his wasting body. And so his silent angel 
conducted him back to his place of detention and, 
comforting him, left him. 

Ages more of helpless burning past, and again 
Michael’s angel dropped to his side and this time 
he brought relief. 

“Michael, my own, peace to thee,” and the 
angel touched the soul, and instantly Michael 
was in lesser pain. “A part of thy ransom has 
been paid, for this morning at three altars thy 
Lord and my Lord was offered.” 

“Who were my real friends?” cried Michael, 
great gratitude welling up within him. “Who, 
Angel? Tell me, that I may never cease praying 
for them ? ’ ’ 

“Your Requiem is just over,” said the angel, 


46 IN GOD’S COUNTRY 

“and she who had the second said was Mrs. 
Howe. ’ ’ 

“Old Martha, whom I placed with the Little 
Sisters on Marygold Avenne ? ’ ’ 

“The same,” said his visitor; “as soon as she 
heard, she sent one of her few dollars, not to a 
florist’s, but to the chaplain.” 

“May God reward her charity!” came from the 
depths of Michael’s soul. 

“He will that very shortly,” murmured the 
guardian, who knew her sands were nearly run 
out. 

“And to whose charity do I owe the third?” 

4 ‘ The third, ’ ’ continued his companion, 4 ‘ whom 
do you suppose paid that part of your ransom?” 

“One of my boys or girls, of course,” replied 
Michael proudly. 

The angel was silent. Then: 

“He who had that Mass said for you was 
Charles Davis.” 

“Davis! Charles Davis! I know no such 
Davis. ’ ’ 

“Yes; you do. Remember three years ago, at 
my inspiration,” it was the guardian angel who 
spoke a shade proudly now, “at my inspiration 
you became interested in a poor boy who wished 
to become a priest?” 

The soul thought. 

“There was a bright lad I gave that scholar¬ 
ship at St. Joe’s to.” 

“That’s Charles Davis. Boy though he is, he 
knows the true help for those who tarry here 
longing for release.” 

“But it can’t be possible that of all my friends 


FLOWERS 


47 


—why! I knew thousands—an old dying woman 
and a forgotten hoy are all that aid me now. My 
friends must have pity on me; some of them. 
Won’t one of my friends remember me!” 

“Yes; Michael, my own, they will remember 
as you did your friends who went before. You 
sent flowers and forgot, and they send flowers.” 
Said his angel pityingly: “It is taking four open 
barouches to transport the valuable tokens of re¬ 
membrance this morning, and the evening papers 
will say it was the most magnificent floral display 
seen in the city since Mayor Straus’s funeral.” 

“What good are flowers to me now! Stones to 
one who hungers for bread!” cried the ^oul sadly. 
“Utterly useless! The very wastefulness of them 
gives me sharper pains. ’ ’ Then he said: 

“Four open barouches of costly flowers at the 
head of the funeral of ‘Mike’ Grady, who hasn’t 
smelt or worn a posey since he was a wee laddie 
back in Cabinteely!” And later with intense 
longing: “Just two Masses and my ransom is 
paid. At least some of my many friends will re¬ 
member that much and release me. ’ ’ 

# * * * # 

When the first anniversary came slowly 
around, a few of the many sent remembrances, 
and they lay on Michael’s grave till the gardener, 
seeing the browning flowers and brittle leaves, 
gathered them all up and burnt them. 

But the soul of Michael, as the Hand of the 
Lord had touched it, lay helpless and hopeful in 
pain, still waiting the charity of two remaining 
Masses; and popular Michael had come to realize, 
as many another popular soul stayed in Purga- 


48 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


tory is realizing, that most of those friends who 
show their respect for the dead by a telephone 
call to the nearest florist, cease to remember 
shortly after they hang up the receiver. 


THE LAST LIE 


HIRTEEN years ago he had been baptized 



J- John Aloysins Shea, but to the hundreds 
with the show, who knew Le Marvel used him in 
his pole act, he was “Kid Le Marvel.” “Skip” 
Watson, the big, blond English boss of the Side 
Shows, invariably said “that snake charmer’s 
brat.” While The Royal Princess Carmelita her¬ 
self usually referred to him as “the lad,” or “my 
laddie”; yet, sometimes, in speaking of her son 
to the other freaks, she would grow impersonal 
and say “the Cushion’s kid,” or “Sticko’s kid,” 
for “Sticko, the Human Pincushion,” in private 
life was John A. Shea, Sr. 

That gentleman, just at present, instead of set¬ 
ting up his “props” for the opening of the gate, 
was obeying the Biblical injunction, and that he 
was not spoiling the child was audible through¬ 
out the four walls of the Side Show. 

“The Pincushion” straightened up somewhat 
breathlessly to say: 

“Now, kid, you’re old enough to learn you 
can’t get away with a lie. Lying, like murder, 
will out in the end. Get that. Freeze on to it, 
and,” he continued ominously, “the next time I 
catches you juggling the truth to me, or Le 
Marvel, or anybody—you’ll get a lickin’.” 


49 


50 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


He crumpled up the damaging 44 Exhibit A,” 
—two cheap Piedmont cigarettes—and repeated: 
44 A lickin’. Now get Minnie to hear your les¬ 
sons.” 

The boy murmured—to his own ear, wisely— 
“Gee! I wonder what Pop calls this.” But he 
shuffled obediently to the platform, where his 
mother was feeding her snakes. 

Shea called across the tent to his wife: 

“Min, dear, give the kid his spellin’.” And to 
his heir: 4 4 Cut that noise, or we ’ll start the per¬ 
formance again.” 

Which promise immediately brought on fair 
weather. 

The snake charmer opened a property trunk 
and got out the cordially hated Sixth Reader. She 
dropped it down to him. 

4 4 Not now, lad. Out in the Big Top and get it 
up yourself. Gracious! I can’t hear you now. 
Grace is off her feed.” 

The lad edged instinctively toward the neigh¬ 
boring platform of the Sword Swallower, for he 
had a healthy horror of all snakes ever since the 
day, two seasons ago, when he had run up to his 
mother with a torn finger and one of her brutes 
had reared and struck him. 

“I don’t know just what ails her, but she’s 
certainly off her feed.” And the worried 44 Prin¬ 
cess” dived a gloved hand into the blue span¬ 
gled box and brought up the dangling five feet of 
a diamond-backed rattler. 

44 Poor ol’ Grace aint well this morning, is oo?” 
Then remembering her son, she called after him: 
44 Not ’fore we open, laddie. Grace’ll keep me 


THE LAST LIE 


51 


busy till then. May have time after your act, so 
know it when you come back for supper.” 

To the beady-eyed head above her fingers: 
“Poor ol’ Grace is off her feed, aint it?” And al¬ 
most pathetically, “Don’t die on me, old girl, or 
I’ll be out fourteen bones, and I can’t afford to 
lose that much jack.” 

The boy ducked under the side wall disgustedly. 
He detested the daily lessons as much as he 
hated to hear his mother baby talk to her pets. 
But both were as regular as the afternoon show, 
and if the page was not known, “The Human 
Pincushion” was informed, and, as the boy had 
once confessed to his friend, Jim Jerry, who sold 
tickets before the Side Show: “Believe me, Jim, 
for a skinny old gent, the old man has some 
wing! ’ ’ 

Still smarting under the effects of that “some 
wing” he rounded the corner of the tent and, 
paralleling the gray canvas wall of the Side Show 
headed for the “Big Top.” 

He shouldered his way, with showman con¬ 
tempt for all “rubes,” through the crowd of boys 
that the “White Tops” always attract. 

Again he ducked under the side wall and 
straightened up in the cool “Big Top.” There 
were but a handful now inside the mighty canvas 
arena that in a couple of hours would seat the 
town’s population. 

Some ushers were smoking and reading the 
sporting sheet; a few tired canvas men were 
stretched out (where they had no business to be) 
on the “reserves,” and away in the quiet of the 


52 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


far end of the tent a grntf-voieed group of 
candy butchers were profanely shooting craps. 

Overhead, “Old Man’’ Tosca of the “Flying 
Toscas,” in his shirt sleeves, was putting a new 
rope in a ring. 

Feeling in need of sympathy after the late in¬ 
terview, the boy decided to go aloft. He skipped 
across the sawdust and, sticking his reader in his 
waist, caught the swaying rope. Up he climbed, 
hand over hand, till he swung himself on to a 
horizontal bar across from the veteran trapeze 
artist. 

“ ’Morning, Mr. Tosca,” he began socially. 

“Aint I told you, Kid Le Marvel, never to 
come up here ’less the net is spread?” Tosca al¬ 
most purred the question. “Well, then, get down, 
and get pretty quick.” And when “Old Man” 
Tosca spoke in that quiet way, the boy knew 
from painful experience it were better to obey 
promptly. 

He slid the thirty feet to earth. 

“Thank you, Tosca. Hope you miss a ring this 
after’,” he called up, and then, as his loneliness 
was growing on him, he did the Charlie Chaplin 
walk down the track till he was abreast of “the 
blues.” Here he bowed to imaginary thousands, 
like “Bub” La Salle, the Chaplin clown. Then 
turning a couple of “cartwheels,” he sank down 
on the bottom tier of the blue-painted seats. 

He was feeling as blue as the seat he sat on. 
Only at the last town Jim Jerry, in a clumsy 
effort to win Kid Le Marvel to the practice of 
truth, had been telling lurid, personal anecdotes 
of lies and their sometimes startling punish- 


THE LAST LIE 


53 


ments. The boy had promised Jim, and had 
really meant it, to speak the whole truth here¬ 
after. But old habits were strong, and who would 
ever expect those two cigarettes to work them¬ 
selves out of an inside pocket at that moment? 
“Me Guardian Angel musta pulled 'em out, just 
to teach me to tell the trut ',' ' he murmured. 
“Well, I'm goin' to try hereafter, sure." 

Then he opened the book and got down to 
study, for he did not care to have a second inter¬ 
view the same day with “Sticko, The Human 
Pincushion .' 1 

The open page told the tale of a boy and his in¬ 
separable dog chum. The involuntary student 
went over it till he thought he was sufe of the 
spelling, and then he fell to dreaming over the 
cut that showed “Tom" and “Sport" at a brook- 
side, and the dripping puppy, stick in mouth, re¬ 
turning to his master. 

“That pitcher dorg looks like 4 Bub' La Salle's 
Nixie, an’ Nixie sleeps wid ol' 4 Bub' !" His berth 
was in the same car as the clown's, and he knew. 
44 Aw, gee! I’d give thirty-eight cents to have a 
dorg like that. He'd keep me from lyin'. He'd 
be a frien' an' I aint got many of them things 
around the show." 

44 Pop, he don't care, and Mom, she thinks much 
more of that there Grace than o' little Willie." 

Then his eyes fell longingly on the cut again. 
4 4 Yes, sir. I c’d train a kid dorg like that to lub 
me. He wouldn't have to be a bright pup, neither. 
A thick 'un 'ud do, that'd pal wid me." 

He dropped his hand and it rested on something 
soft and warm. 


54 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


The boy rose promptly. 

There at the toe-piece of “the blues / 9 its belly 
furrowing the dust, crouched a half-grown gray 
cur. It crawled tremblingly toward him, its tail 
begging a welcome. Close to his shoe it sank. The 
boy touched it with his foot and instantly the dog 
rolled over on its back, with pleading paws up¬ 
raised and tail still thumping of friendship. 

“Well, you kid dorg! You certainly threw a 
scare into me. I thought you was one of 
Mother’s darlings.” 

The tail was pounding violently, now that recog¬ 
nition had come. 

He dropped back on “the blues” and whistled. 
The pup came hesitatingly, but it came, and 
molded itself ever so humbly into his lap. 

4 ‘ Git down and git pretty quick. ’’ The tone was 
Tosca’s, but the puppy only crouched lower, its 
tail ever vibrating. 

That disobedience enslaved Kid Le Marvel. 

Then he examined his new friend critically. The 
result was most discouraging. 

4 ‘See here, kid dorg! Y’may been borned with a 
gray coat, but I tink it was white oncet. It ’ll take a 
ton o ’ suds to tell. ’ ’ 

He held the dog up by the scuff of the neck, and 
it whimpered. 

“Mutt! Iknowedit.” 

He put the bundle down and got up. 

“Hungry, kiddo? I say. Eats? Savvy? No 
savvy?” 

“Well, I am, so come along, pal, and feed with 
me,” and he gathered up the pup and book. 

Across the street to where the cook tent was 


THE LAST LIE 


55 


pitched, he whistled his way, and dropped into a 
seat alongside of the Fat Girl. 

“ ’Lo, Babe,” he called socially. Then, holding 
the dog firmly in his lap, he continued: 

“Auntie Annie, we have wid us to-day—what 
y’ tink? Little ol’ pal o’ mine. Jinx, the was- 
white-oncet kioodle. Now the ’sclusive pal of Mr. 
John A. Shea, Jr. Annie, Jinx. Jinx, Aunt 
Annie.” 

Annie laughed good-naturedly and offered 
“Jinx” a bone, which was ravenously accepted. 

“Go long, John, with your spiel. Where did 
you steal the mutt?” 

“Crooked nawthing! A real lady, wid rocks 
and furs in a swell car, stopped me, when I was 
downtown this morning, and she said: ‘Little boy, 
I like your looks. You’re handsome ’nough to be 
the twin of me Percy, an* I wants you to accept 
this real, imported-in-bond kioodle, what the King 
of-” 

“What was your Daddy saying this morning 
about—” interrupted Annie, reminiscently, rising 
from the table. 

‘ ‘ Aw! Annie, I forgot. ’ ’ And he clapped his un¬ 
engaged hand to his mouth. “Ain’t never goin’ to 
tell no more. No; I found the dorg in the Big Top. 
It sniffed the lions, an’ was scart stiffer’n a layin’ 
out rod.” 

“That’s better, John,” said the Fat Girl; “Mom 
and I wants you to cut the lies. You’ll never, never 
gain anything by ’em. Going to f ” 

“Yes, ma’am,” came in earnest response. 

“Now you’re talking!” Then, hearing the first 



56 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


strains of the Side Show band, she swallowed her 
coffee and waddled away to her platform. 

The boy ate rapidly and the pup in his lap fared 
heavenly. Finally he gulped a slab of what he 
called 44 Lemon Moran” pie, and shot out into the 
open. 

It was nearing one o’clock, and aristocratic 
autos and plebeian trolleys were dumping happy 
thousands on the circus grounds. 

Re-crossing the street to get back to the main 
lot, an indignant voice hailed him: 

“Hey! I like your nerve! That there’s my 
Fido what’s y’got. An’ you give ’im to me right 
away. ’ ’ A boy considerably above his size grabbed 
his arm and attempted to rescue the disputed 
property. 

“Your dorg!” Kid Le Marvel’s new-formed 
resolution flashed up before him. He hesitated a 
moment. Then he looked at the pup. “Your 
dorg! Well, my frien’, you’d better make yourself 
mighty scarce around this here lot. Why, boy, 
you know what this dorg done? You did, an’ you’d 
be in the next town by 2 p.m. Yes, sir, ’fore that.” 

“W-what did he do?” The owner of “Fido” 
dropped his arm dazedly. 

‘ ‘ Done ? Oh, nawthin ’ much. Only don’t let Mr. 
‘Slap’ Watson, the General Manager of the 
show, know that youse is the owner of this fierce, 
bloodthirsty brute. He’d kill you like that, boy.” 

The speaker snapped the fingers of his free 
hand under the other’s nose. “Yes, sir. Like 
that. That’s wot me fadder’d do, if he seen you.” 

“But, w-what Fido do?” 

“Do?” with studied indifference “Only bit 


THE LAST LIE 


57 


i Prince,’ our $12,000 lion, when he was asleep. 
The two doctors think he’s got the hiderfobia, all 
right, all right. Now you know what your dorg 
done ? 

“So, Mr. Owner of Fido, wot bites $12,000 lions, 
you make yourself scarce, or I’ll call a officer, an’ 
you ’ll sleep t ’night in the pie house. Git. ’ ’ 

Kid Le Marvel’s face never relaxed until the 
fleeing youth had disappeared around the distant 
group of trolleys. Then he said to the pup in an 
ashamed whisper: 

“Jinx, you ol’ lion-eater, I broke me resolution, 
an’ I shouldn’t oughta done that. But I don’t 
wanta lose you, little ol’ Jinx.” And he gave the 
puppy an affectionate squeeze that made it yelp. 

Then he headed for the Side Shows. 

A few hundred were already within, and they 
were just flowing away from the platform of “The 
Royal Princess Carmelita” to the next stand of 
the Sword Swallower, where the inside lecturer, 
the ascetical looking “Dope” McGraw, was open¬ 
ing his “spiel” by inviting all “to step up a little 
closter.” 

The boy walked up to his mother’s platform. 
She was made up now—short skirt, and bodice of 
Alice blue, and rouged and jeweled to the eye-lids. 
He heard her answering in that impersonal, sing¬ 
song tone that freaks and convicts affect, when 
they speak of themselves, the curious questions of 
two women. 

“Yes, lady, this one is gentle, and almost as 
affectionate as a baby.” 

“Yes, lady, warm milk once a day.” 

Still talking to the women about the slender 


58 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


green snake, that coiled around her wrist, her eyes 
traveled to her son. She frowned at the sight of 
the puppy, but she gave no other sign of recog¬ 
nition, for it was a strict rule in the Shea family 
not to know each other during show hours. 

It was getting close to opening time, so the boy 
edged around to the back of the platform, and 
there he found what he wanted. It was the empty 
box of the big Texan racer that had died in the last 
town. 

With a hurried “So long, pal; I’ll be back after 
me act,” he tumbled the surprised dog into this 
box. He snapped the perforated lid, and heard a 
smothered yelp as he raced to the Dressing Tent. 

This was now filled with men in all stages of 
make-up, and he found Le Marvel already dress¬ 
ing. The Kid dove into the long trunk for his 
costume, and three minutes later stood up in his 
monkey makeup, with saucy red cap and jacket 
and trailing tail. 

He smiled as he said to himself happily: “I’m 
goin’ to make a dorg outer that ol’ pal. Yes, sir, a 
trick dorg.” 

Then he disappeared back of “Bub” La Salle’s 
trunk, where, a safe distance beyond the ken of Le 
Marvel, he lit up a forbidden cigarette and fell 
adreaming out a schedule of training that would 
have terrorized the imprisoned dog had he 
suspected a tenth of the plans of his new master. 

Later, he heard Le Marvel’s impatient “Hey, 
kid. Where’s that—” but the boy cried “Ready” 
and bounded into view. 

They tarried at the “back door” in the middle 
of a crowd of i i kinkers ’ ’ and clowns waiting their 


THE LAST LIE 


59 


signal. The lad, as he always did before his en¬ 
trance, made a hurried request to his Guardian 
Angel, and a sort of Sign of the Cross. Then a 
moment later the tall Le Marvel and his midget 
partner bounded into ring number one. 

There they bowed to the oval of thousands and 
the boy skinned up the slim pole that Le Marvel 
balanced on his shoulder. Twenty feet he climbed, 
till he swayed almost on a level with the aerial acts, 
and there he caught one foot in the “mechanic” 
and, bracing the other against the pole, straight¬ 
ened out horizontally. 

Looking down, he could see the straining man, 
with upturned eyes, watching his every move and 
anticipating it. Something in the tense face of 
Le Marvel made him realize that their act was 
what is technically called 6 ‘ a death act,’ ’ and if the 
“mechanic” slipped, or Le Marvel miscalculated 
the living weight on top of the pole, there would be 
little hope of “the weight” surviving the fall. So 
he murmured the thought that came to his lips— 
“Watch me, Gawd”—and then at a sharp “Now” 
from the ground, pulled out the American flag 
from his bosom and waved it. 

That always took with the crowd, and what 
pleased him most were the shrill yells of delight 
from the countless children. Then more “busi¬ 
ness” in the air, but he went through it me¬ 
chanically, as he was thinking of a boxed dog. 

As he came down carefully he made his plans. 

“I’ll get Mom to hear me now, and then I’ll be 
free wid Jinx till the night show.” 

He dropped lightly to the ring and, delighted 
with the near future, put a snap into the “cart- 


60 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


wheels’’ and hand-springs he was doing that 
brought out a round of applause. 

Le Marvel smiled and the boy smiled. Then he 
made a spring and perched on the man’s shoulder, 
and thus, smiling and bowing, they made their 
usual exit. 

Once outside the great flap of canvas that sepa¬ 
rated the “Big Top” from the dressing tents, the 
boy jumped down and Le Marvel gave him a blow 
on the ear that sent him spinning into an 
astonished, white-painted clown, who was await¬ 
ing his entrance. 

“Now, kid, how many times I gotta tell you to 
pay attention up there? I almost lost you twice 
to-day. Cut that dream stuff when you’re doin’ 
your act. If you want to get mashed, I don’t want 
to be the executioner. So, let me catch you wool¬ 
gathering up at the end of the pole this evening 
and I’ll—” Le Marvel broke off, but the threat 
was more effective to the boy than if it had been 
worded. 

He rubbed his throbbing ear and, without a 
word, went and changed. He remembered where 
he had left his reader, and just outside the side 
wall of the “Big Rag,” where the cries of the 
myriads within sounded like the rumbles of distant 
thunder, he gave the lesson a thorough, but hasty, 
review, and, feeling sure he knew it passably, shot 
away to the now silent ‘ ‘ Kid Show. ’ ’ 

Within, most of the platforms were deserted. 
His father was not there, and he saw his mother 
and Annie knitting. He would have liked to 
release “Jinx” first, but Mrs. Shea saw him and 
called: 


THE LAST LIE 


61 


“Come, lad, and I’ll hear you now. Though I 
declare to gracious I’m all in. The fool questions 
some rubes ask, Annie!” and “The Royal 
Princess’’ sniffed at the memory of the after¬ 
noon’s grilling. 

The Fat Girl nodded good-naturedly. “I gets 
’em too, Minnie. The wimming’s the worse.” 

The boy climbed up on Annie’s reinforced plat¬ 
form and gave the reader to his mother. Then, 
kneeling at her knee, he read, as haltingly as a 
child in the Fourth Grade, the story of “Tom” 
and “Sport.” 

Annie, who couldn’t read herself, stopped her 
knitting to listen wonderingly to this accomplished 
scholar. Satisfied, she nodded approval. 

Then “The Princess” took the reader in her 
“royal” hand and, saying, “Good, laddie; now 
let’s hear the spellin’,” she made her son stand up 
before her. 

Every word, except the deceptive “knife,” was 
spelt correctly, and “The Royal Princess” spilled 
his cup of happiness when she closed the book and 
said: 

“Atta boy, lad. I wisht you’d always know 
your lessons like that. Y’can go. Don’t get 
scrappin’ or smokin’. And,” she added, remem¬ 
bering the morning’s trouble, “ ’member, a liar 
always lies himself into greater trouble, laddie. 
And I want my lad to be truthful.” 

“Yes, Mom.” He leaped down happily. 
Lessons were over till to-morrow and he was free. 
He flung the reader into his mother’s property 
trunk and went joyously around to the rear of the 
platform. As he was about to open the empty 


62 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


snake box and reclaim his “pal” dog, Carmelita 
called to him: “0 lad, come here. Annie wants 
yon. ’ ’ 

He came up to the edge of Annie’s platform 
again. 

The Fat Girl was fumbling in her skirt and 
finally produced a gaudy purse. The boy bright¬ 
ened visibly and leaped up on the platform. He 
knew Annie of old. 

She clumsily opened the clasp and searched for 
a coin. 

“John,” she said. She was the only one around 
the show who used his Christian name. “John, 
for being truthful at dinner time. Auntie Annie 
likes that better than knowing your lessons.” 

He took the half dollar. 

“Perhaps it’ll buy a collar for that pup you had 
to dinner. Though if it was my mutt, I’d spent 
it all on soap. But suit yourself, John.” 

“What’s all this?” asked the snake charmer. 
“A dog? Keep it away, lad, from my babies.” 

And he said he certainly would. 

“Oh, Mom, wait till you see Jinx! He’s a beaut. 
I’m goin’ to train that dorg! D’you want to see 
’im?” 

“I might as well,” said his mother resignedly. 
Her taste for pets stopped at her own kind. “But 
hurry, laddie. There’s the chariot races and we’ll 
soon reopen.” 

Afar they could hear the faint rumble of the 
heavy cars sweeping around the near end of the 
track, and they knew that the afternoon show was 
nearly over. Annie gathered up her knitting and 
hid it. 


THE LAST LIE 


63 


“Aw! Lemme show ’im to you just a sec, 
Mom.’ 9 

“Just a sec, then, lad.” 

The boy jumped to get “Jinx,” but his mother 
stopped him with: 

“Another thing, lad. Whatever you do, keep 
away from that snake-box behind the platform.” 

“Why?” he asked innocently. 

“ ’Cause Grace was a bit unmanageable and I 
put her there this morning, so as she’d have 
quiet. ’ ’ 

The half dollar dropped musically to the board, 
rolled over and dropped off the platform. 

A wee, strained voice asked: “I say, Mom, you 
put that there rattler in that empty box there?” 
He pointed. 

She nodded, suspecting nothing. 

“The money dropped there,” said Annie, indi¬ 
cating the spot where it had disappeared. 

“Aw! let it rot.” 

“Lad!” said his mother sharply. 

But Kid Le Marvel, whose heavens were tum¬ 
bling, fell on his knees and buried his face in his 
mother’s lap. 

Outside “The Imperial Hawaiian Band,” born 
to a man in Dixie, was giving its opening “bally¬ 
hoo,” and the snake charmer knew she should be 
on her own platform, or she would hear shortly 
from “Skip” Watson. 

She kissed the boy awkwardly, sensing some of 
his tragedy, and murmured: “And my laddie is 
sorry he told that boy a lie about his dog, ain’t 
he?” 

A hot cheek nodded against her hand. 


64 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


“Maybe it’s all right, lad dear.” But she knew 
in her heart that she was raising false hopes. 

Then, taking her weeping little son by the arm, 
the ‘ ‘Royal Princess Carmelita” went with him 
to the rear of her platform. 

The advance guard of the public were already 
straying in at the other end of the tent, and she 
had only a minute. Some mother instinct told her 
to stand between the boy and the box as she raised 
the lid. 

In one corner lay the “dorg.” 

“Then that’s me last lie,” sobbed Kid Le 
Marvel. 


THE IMPOTENT POWERS 

T HE three men, whom prosperity clothed as 
with a well-fitting garment, paused by the 
shadowed marble rails of the South Portico. The 
arresting grandeur of morning and Monument 
held them in bonds of reverie. Below them, in the 
exclusive Grounds, grew variegated bush and bed, 
and beyond, out of the smooth green mound, 
soared the commanding beauty of The Monument. 
Rare sunshine gloved the quiet white shaft. Into 
the blue it rose, this chastest of obelisks, that a 
grateful nation had erected to him whose memory 
fittingly lives first in the hearts of his countrymen. 

The vista did provoke thoughts, contented self- 
satisfied thoughts in the breasts of these three 
men. The first of this group fancied he saw in 
this mighty memorial to his immortal predecessor 
the symbol of the vast authority it was his of right 
to wield. For he was Chief Executive of a great 
nation. A free people had chosen him as their 
leader and so his influence reached to many 
horizons and he stood a Saul among his peers, 
even as this proud column arose, overtowering all. 

Not so The Monument appeared to the Presi¬ 
dent’s brother, the grim, frosty-bearded man, who 
represented a sovereign state in his country’s 
Senate. His mind, from long habit, easily pictured 

65 


66 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


this tall shaft across the summer green sea as 
built of more precious blocks than mere marble. 
Easily he viewed its commanding height as accu¬ 
mulated wealth personified. And it might well 
typify his own amassed possessions, for like the 
ancient plutocrat of Phrygia, whatever this new 
Midas had touched, these many years, had yielded 
him a golden hundredfold. 

But to the keen gray sight of the youngest of 
these three successful men, the lofty tribute to 
the nation’s Founder signified other, nobler things. 
What if great authority had decreed its erection 
and wealth had quarried its many parts. This 
surgeon knew that power and riches had lain help¬ 
lessly by till Science, with her cunningness, had 
achieved this engineering triumph. 

Thus each of the trio, as he silently smoked his 
expensive after-breakfast cigar, imagined he saw 
in this man-made memorial something that was 
essential to his own eminence; something that 
justified his own success. And the thoughts of 
President, Senator, and surgeon were proud, 
pleasant thoughts. 

A laugh interrupted their satisfied reveries, and 
the radiant Bride of the surgeon stood framed in 
the doorway. She herself in summer white was 
emblematic of the glories of the June morning. 
Youth and Health and Joy came attending her. 
She took a step onto the deep balcony and then 
paused at the sight of the quiet three. 

But the President shook his head, saying: “No, 
daughter; not matters of state this hour. Join us 
and share us your thoughts, for our Monument is 
a veritable preacher in stone.’’ 


THE IMPOTENT POWERS 


67 


“Yes; come and speak/’ urged the others, and 
they watched her with affectionate eyes, for in her 
their power and wealth and love were centered. 

The young matron acquiesced with girlish 
grace, and, standing with her hands clasped behind 
her back, she dropped her eyes to the green base. 
Then with a swift upward appraising glance, she 
swept the hundreds of feet of sheer marble, up, 
up to the black slits, through which early bird 
tourists gazed on the capital city spread out as the 
beauties of a feast far below. Finally, she turned 
with a serious smile from the sight of the white 
Monument and looked meditatively at her uncle, 
her father, her husband. 

“The Monument against the morning? Why, 
my dear relatives, to me the lessons of its sermon 
are threefold.” She addressed the President. 
“Of course, Dad, it , s firm and commanding as 
your will in the execution of your constitutional 
powers. Then it’s piled high, block on block, cube 
on cube, almost as high as—” she gave the rugged 
old Senator a tolerant toss of her head, “—as 
high as Uncle Franklin’s scandalous possessions. 
And, lastly, as the clergyman would say, we see in 
its completion, the technical skill required of the 
stored ages, the dexterity found in master hands, 

like-” she took up affectionately one of the 

strong, sensitive hands of her husband, “—like 
this distinguished surgeon’s. 

“But more insistent than all these, there is a 
happy application to me. For does not our good 
Monument teach me this blessed morning how for¬ 
tunate I be. Verily, I am beloved of God. What 
woman in the land, or in the world, has such a trio 



68 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


of nearest and dearest to protect her from all mis¬ 
fortune, to shield her from every harm, to grant 
her her heart’s desires, as I have? Answer me 
that, most powerful sirs?” 

The three men gave gay approval to her 
analysis of the still sermon. And while they gal¬ 
lantly pledged her, who was to them their most 
cherished possession, shielded happiness down 
many bright years, the thin blue gray clouds from 
three Havanas ascended over their heads and dis¬ 
solved into the clear air, till the smoke became one 
with God’s crystal atmosphere. 

But neither Power nor Wealth nor Science 
noticed that more symbolic sermon. 

Then while they stood laughing and contentedly 
gazing across at the gleaming white pile that had 
preached to them a sermon they desired to hear, a 
cloud floated by on high, and the shadow of that 
cloud fell on the tip of The Monument and dropped 
inexorably downward, dimming the great stone’s 
brightness. 

The sunshine went out and an infinite shadow 
rested over the vista that awoke other thoughts, 
compelling thoughts in the breasts of the three 
men. A certain sadness fell upon them with the 
cloud’s passage. The proud message of The 
Monument was no longer remembered, and each 
of the men felt finite; less rich, less skilled, less 
powerful. 

The Bride, as with some vague foreboding, 
clutched for protection the plain gold cross, that 
lay, a solitary ornament, upon her bosom, and, for¬ 
getful of her trio of protectors, whispered a 
prayer to the Heart Divine. 


THE IMPOTENT POWERS 


69 


“It grows colder/’ she shuddered; “let us go 
in.” 

“Cold in warm June!” scoffed the President, 
but he saw his brother buttoning his light coat 
about him, and through the frame of the surgeon 
passed a shiver. 

And, presently, the three men escorted the 
Bride within. 

It was toward dawn of the next day, and lights 
burnt untimely in The Mansion. All evening there 
had been hurried goings and comings. Power had 
sent forth imperative messages and mighty cities 
had sent their best in willing haste. Distracted 
Wealth had torn open its purse to the widest. 
Even at that moment a swift plane was bringing, 
high above the black prairies of Ohio, the most 
able surgeon in the land. 

And all because, in an upper chamber, the Bride 
of a few months lay very weak. 

The thaumaturgical hands of her husband had 
operated at early evening. Other willing hands, 
hands that had worked surgical miracles in many 
clinics, had aided him. But the patient was not 
rallying. 

She lay listlessly on her bed of white, while im- 
potently by stood the three men. 

The sad father eyes of the first reflected his 
helplessness. 

“I can do nothing further, then?” implored the 
President of the most powerful nation on earth. 

“Your power can do absolutely nothing now,” 
came the reply. 

The old Senator, his thoughts still on the 


70 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


strength of his vast holdings, offered: “ I ’ll gladly 
give my many silver mines to the one who saves 
her. I ’ll give—I ’ll give-’ ’ 

“She waits at the dim gateway. Your wealth 
is poverty-stricken there,” came the answer. 

“There is no hope,” confessed the surgeon, 
looking down on his pallid wife. “We have 
reached the uttermost limits of our abilities. 
Medical Science is helpless now. ’ ’ 

“Helpless now,” came the echo. 

And then it was, while these three men, each one 
all powerful in his sphere of life, stood impotently 
by the last bed of her whom they idolized, that into 
the hushed chamber was ushered another man. 

He was dressed in worn black, this Ambassador 
of another world, and he walked with eyes down¬ 
cast. Yet his step was Christly, for he came in 
authority, and over his heart he bore The Com¬ 
panion, whose companionship is surety for all who 
would make the great journeying-forth. 

Then Power and Wealth and Science drew back 
and the Ambassador sat by the bedside and into 
his ears alone came the contrite words that told of 
human frailties. When the tale was a secret for¬ 
ever, the hand of the Ambassador lifted and 
crossed and pardoned. 

Power watched that hand move and he realized 
that greater authority had been exercised in that 
action than ever it was given to him. 

Then the Ambassador, bending assuringly over 
the quiet bed, began to anoint with sacred oils the 
brow of the Bride. When he was done, the surgeon 
noted that a dawn of contentment had broken 



THE IMPOTENT POWERS 


71 


over tlie wan face and he knew it was more than 
his skill had wrought—could work. 

Now to the little white table the Ambassador 
turned and adored Him, who reflected the candles’ 
gleam. Rising, the Ambassador faced the Bride 
and he brought her One, who was a Safe Com¬ 
panion for the long way. One, who would go with 
her out beyond the confines of the greatest nation 
and lead her through peaceful stretches unto the 
domains of Eternal Peace. 

The old Senator, whom Long Life had taught to 
weigh all service upon the scales of gold, now 
learnt he had not the wealth to purchase for his 
well-beloved niece such companionship. 

Then while all stood reverently by, this stoled 
Ambassador spoke authoratively in His Master’s 
Name. He encouraged this frail traveler that her 
going-forth might be in courage. He bade those 
fallen fellows of the Angels to retire and vanish 
‘ 4 like smoke or as wax before the fire.” He 
ordered the white company of noble Angels, 
Thrones, and six-winged Seraphim, to meet this 
one and conduct her into the blessed midst of 
myriads. 

Confidently commanded the Ambassador in the 
plenitude of his power: “Depart, 0 Christian 
Soul.” 

###### 

Within the upper chamber Power and Wealth 
and Science wept like little children, for three 
hearts were heavy with the knowledge that their 
sorrow was tinged with the bitter realization of 
their finiteness. 


72 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


Without, through the windows of the upper 
chamber, the lofty Monument was preaching to 
Power and Wealth and Science another, a most 
consoling sermon, for now in the peaceful moon¬ 
light the white shaft pointed impressively heaven¬ 
ward, as though it were the very Finger of God. 


THE TRUE CAPTAIN 

“ TRAY’LL break in an hour now,” said seaman 
Wallace hopefully, balancing his ice-coated 
oars and peering into the bleak east, 4 4 and then 
some steamer’ll pick us up, or we’ll surely make 
the Connecticut shore. ’ ’ And he bent to his weary 
rowing. 

Out of the cold stillness of the late night a 
seventh wave swelled up and the small lifeboat 
was lifted and shot down into the dark trough. A 
sheet of Arctic water sprayed the bows, and, fall¬ 
ing, soaked the bunched-up figure that lay under 
the smashed bowseat. The figure moved heavily 
and moaned. 

44 Is it hurtin’ much, Oscar?” asked the boy, 
who crouched at big Wallace’s feet. 

No answer! So he stopped his endless bailing 
and lifted the shiplight. It cast a dingy yellow 
glow beyond the broad shoulders of the sailor 
and showed the indistinct form of the Swedish 
steward, and beyond and above the fog. 

44 He’s in pretty bad shape, he is, Genie.” 
Wallace never ceased to row. 4 4 That crazy leap 
from the boat deck did more than break his arm, 
I’m thinking; and,” he added in a lower tone, 
4 4 he’ll freeze stiffer’n a marlin spike ’fore daylight 
this weather.” To the boy at his knee he said: 

73 


74 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


“Cold, Cap’nr* 

The boy compressed his lips and again braced 
the lantern against his foot, but Wallace noticed 
how stiffly the fingers closed as he doubled to con¬ 
tinue bailing the slushy bilge. 

So did the listening girl in the stern-sheets. 
She glanced questioningly at her fellow-passenger, 
but he sat, head sunk on breast, and saw nothing—• 
in the same position he had taken hours ago, when 
the seaman ordered him to take an oar, and the 
two had had words. Then she stretched her frosted 
muff and touched the blue pea jacket. 

“Come, lad. You have most of the water out 
now. Sit between us. It can’t be colder here.” 

“Cap’n” looked up to the rower, who nodded, 
so dropping his bailer, he wiggled back between 
the two. His teeth chattered as he mumbled 
‘ ‘ Thank ye, M-Miss, ’’ and the girl felt the uncon¬ 
trollable shaking of the small frame. With quick 
sympathy she commanded the raw hands and 
folded them in her furs. He raised grateful eyes 
to her face. 

“That’s right, Miss. Warm up the Cap’n’s 
flippers.” 

The owner of the flippers grinned. 

“Is ‘Cap’n’ your name?” said the girl. 

Wallace replied: 

“He’s the captain’s son and,”—he shot a con¬ 
temptuous glance at the male passenger—“if any¬ 
thing should happen to me, this boy’s the only man 
to take command here.” 

With his left he back-paddled, keeping the life¬ 
boat Read on to the invisible swells. Then as 
though continuing his thoughts aloud: 


THE TRUE CAPTAIN 


75 


“Yes; and he would, Miss, for he’s shown to¬ 
night there’s the makings of the true captain in 
him Haven’t you, old man?” 

Gene nodded solemnly. 

“But ain’t you chilled yourself, Miss?” The 
big sailor spoke again. 

“More than a bit, but my furs protect me yet. 
Thank God, it was cold in my stateroom and I kept 
’em on, or, when it happened, I’d never have 
thought of them. I didn’t save much,” she added 
with a failure of a smile, shuddering at the remem¬ 
brance of the indelible horror of midnight. 

“Well, you were lucky to save yourself, girl. 
There are many won’t do that to-night,” com¬ 
plained the man seated with her. “We’re not 
ashore yet, not ashore yet.” 

She turned to the voice that came cryingly from 
the muffled throat. 

“Oh! I thought you were asleep, Mr., Mr.,-” 

“Asleep!” snorted Wallace, and then checked 
himself with a savage pull at his oars. 

The ship-light sputtered and flared up, and Miss 
Madison caught a sharp snapshot of the other’s 
features. Instinctively she drew the boy Gene 
closer, for the flash revealed the florid face of the 
passenger that had staggered into her, when they 
were crossing the gangplank under the white arcs 
at Fall River. 

That was only last evening in actual time, but 
now it seemed a crowded eternity since she had 
boarded this Sound steamer for New York. While 
she slept, a silent ship had glided out of the fog 
and cut the mortal gash in the City of Worcester. 
She had awakened at the shock and saw the dying 



76 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


electrics in the stateroom ceiling. Terrified, she 
groped along the rapidly slanting passageway, up 
the difficult main stairway, and out into the black 
scramble on the deck. There she had pushed and 
been pushed; she had been frightened by the wild 
shrill cries about her and later calmed by a steady 
voice and its cool commands that came unceasingly 
from the hidden bridge. 

Then came a rush toward her. She had swayed 
and fainted—how long she knew not—but she re¬ 
membered distinctly hearing the same steady 
voice, this time leaning over her, say: “Here’s 
another woman. In with her.” Steel arms had 
lifted to hurl her into this lifeboat, as it was being 
lowered from the creaking davits. 

Then occurred the second horror of the night, 
and she remembered gripping the seat when the 
bow-falls parted, and half the boatload slipped 
into the inky surface, and she still felt the nip of 
the bitter water the boat shipped in righting 
herself. It burnt like a surgeon’s scalpel. 

“Where are we, sailor?” 

Seaman Wallace did not reply. 

“We’re not—,” she hesitated to word her 
thought, “are we?” 

“Not yet, Miss,” lied the sailor. But encourag¬ 
ingly, “With daylight I’ll be able to row toward 
the other boats. Can’t be far off. We’d never 
have parted company, if it weren’t for this cursed 
fog. But, anyway, light’ll lift that an’ show the 
Connecticut shore, an’ there,”—he nodded to the 
attentive boy—“we’ll find the captain awaiting 
us.” 

The captain’s son sniffed. 


THE TRUE CAPTAIN 


77 


“No; we won’t find Pa there, ’cause,” he added 
with sea pride, “he’s capt’un of the Worcester 
and no capt’un would leave his ship when his 
ship’s hurted that way.” Emphatically, “Not my 
Pa.” 

And again Miss Madison thought she heard the 
ring of the steady voice from the bridge, and she 
knew what the boy said was so. 

But with the coming of the desired dawn, snow 
flurried and lifeboat No. 9 bobbed aimlessly to the 
slaty waves of Long Island Sound. The fog thick¬ 
ened to a solid gray, shutting out everything but 
the cold. That was biting like pincers now, and 
even the last barrier of Miss Madison’s furs had 
long been carried. 

Through the January air she saw the broad 
hands of seaman Wallace, like blue claws, pulling 
mechanically at the long shiny oars; while back of 
him, under the broken seat, the twisted shape of 
the Swedish steward lay motionless; his blue eyes 
open wide and one arm doubled back in a gro¬ 
tesque attitude. And she recalled as connected 
with this unnatural arm, the screaming leap of this 
poor fellow from the black above; the thud with 
which he had struck the bowseat; the shotlike 
crack that followed, and his commencing to moan. 

She turned away as though to shut out the re¬ 
membrance, and saw the passenger next Gene still 
sat huddled up, now and then whining to himself, 
and that the boy, hands locked in hers under the 
furs, slept exhausted; his head resting against the 
frozen sealskin of her jacket. 

Seaman Wallace stopped pulling and listened, 


78 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


but the only sound that came through the killing 
cold was the grating of ice along the water line. 

Gene woke and stared about him, startled. 

“Why, it’s day!” he exclaimed. Then seeing 
the set face of the Swede: 4 ‘Say, Wal, what’s the 
matter with Oscar? He looks awful funny,” and 
the boy pointed. 

Seaman Wallace twisted to look over his 
shoulder. 

“I guess Oscar’s pain has gone now, old man,” 
he called back. Then drawing in his oars, he got 
up with great difficulty and clambered over the 
intervening seat. He broke the body away from 
where it was wedged. 

“It’s better to lighten ship, Cap’n,” said the 
sailor, lifting it, and Miss Madison noted the loose 
arm dangle. 

He rested his burden on the slippery gunwale, 
and the girl half rose from her place as she 
realized what he was about. 

“Oh, don’t! Please, don’t!” 

The sudden movement of Miss Madison un¬ 
balanced Wallace. He dropped the hard thing and 
clutched at the sleeted airtight compartment. His 
numb fingers found no purchase, and he and the 
corpse pitched heavily into the satin sea. 

Oscar bobbed up, and Miss Madison sickened as 
the wet blue eyes looked steadily at her. Then it 
rolled over, and only the huddled shoulders were 
visible floating into the fog. 

“0 my God!” cried Miss Madison, burying her 
face to shut out that sight. 

Gene had sat like one held, as his large friend 
disappeared. Open-mouthed, he craned his neck 


THE TRUE CAPTAIN 


79 


to see the struggling sailor, but the heavily clothed 
Wallace did not rise within the horizon of the en¬ 
circling gray. 

The boy heard the girl scream, and then it was 
he realized that he had come into his command, 
that on him, the captain’s son, now rested the 
safety of all three. He crushed down his rising 
terror; he was captain of this drifting boat, and a 
true captain he must be. In an instant he turned 
and shook the other passenger. 

“Mister! Mister! We gotta row. You gotta.” 
He kept worrying his arm. 1 1 Come out of it. You 
must take an oar. I can’t handle both alone. Ah! 
have a heart! ’ ’ and he half dragged the whimper¬ 
ing passenger to the vacant bench and thrust an 
oar into his fingers. He dropped alongside, and, 
bracing his feet against a cross strip, took the 
other long blade. 

“0 my God! How he stared at me.” Miss 
Madison was sobbing convulsively. “I can’t die 
that way. I can’t.” Clumsily she unbuttoned her 
jacket and searched for an extra handkerchief. “I 
mustn’t. Oh, don’t let me, boy,” and she hid her 
face in the found white expanse. 

“You won’t, lady,” said Gene, trying to keep 
some stroke with his partner. “I’ll make the Con¬ 
necticut shore. It’s this way.” He bobbed with 
confidence to the invisible starboard. “Soon as 
this fog lifts, I’ll pick it up.” And authoritatively, 
“Pull, Mister. Pull harder.” And later, “Aw! 
put your back into it. ’ ’ 

Mechanically obedient, the passenger rowed and 
reluctantly the fog opened and followed the life¬ 
boat. The unusual exercise was sobering the man 


80 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


and he began to realize clearly for the first time 
since the collision the great peril he was in. For 
he had the heart of a coward, eminently selfish, 
and the only peril he considered was his own. 

‘ ‘ What did that big, burly sailor do that for, 
boy?” 

‘ ‘ What ? Fall overboard ? ’ ’ 

“Yes! he knew I needed him to get ashore.” 

“Well, old Wallace is drowned, but me and you 
gotta get this lady ashore now, so work, Mister . 9 ’ 

“I can’t die now. 0 Lord! I can’t,” whined 
Miss Madison. 

“That’s all right, lady. You won’t,” en¬ 
couraged Gene. 

“But I will and I can’t. Oh, I’m so cold,” and 
she lifted a countenance on which tears had frozen. 
Then remembering that last solid look as the 
steward had rolled over, she clutched at the edge 
of the stern seat. 

“Hold that ship lantern between your hands, 
Miss. It’ll warm you some,” commanded the boy. 
The girl did. 

The fog came down gloomier as the morning 
light strengthened. They pulled in silence as be¬ 
neath the apex of a soft gray dome, that ever ad¬ 
vanced and kept the moving boat stationary under 
its center. No welcome noise came across the 
awakening waters of the Sound; not even the bell 
of a fogbound vessel. 

Once a wing flapped and a whitish gull wheeled 
within their tomb, but scared by the oars ’ splash, 
it stopped in the very act of alighting on the sur¬ 
face and disappeared through the gray wall. 

The man pulled awkwardly, burying the spoon 


THE TRUE CAPTAIN 


81 


deep at most strokes, and the boy, sizes too small 
for his oar, made little progress, while the 
frightened girl, chilled as never before, hugged the 
scant warmth of the pale flame as though it was 
gold, and sobbed hysterically. 

“Weepin’ll do her good, don’t you think so, 
Mister!” anxiously puffed “Caphi,” breathless 
from his man’s exertion. “Gee! I’m all in.” 

The passenger started to reply, when his oar 
missed. It seared the water white, and he shot 
back, tumbling between the seats. The oar slid 
out of the rowlock and splashed into the Sound. 
Gene clutched vainly across the man’s feet, but 
his hand closed on burning water. The boat 
broached to, helpless in the freezing atmosphere. 

The boy’s sea experience told him what the 
rescue of that oar meant, and his face went deadly 
white as he turned and eyed the sprawling man. 

“That was a bonehead trick, you landlubber!” 

It started to snow in earnest; great flakes 
floated down through the misty ceiling, like giant 
dust shaken from hidden rafters. They struck 
the slate-colored Sound and melted, but those that 
landed within the lifeboat blotched white the floor¬ 
ing and seats and crew. The white spots grew 
into crude figures and merged, and finally hid 
everything as under a bright furry robe. 

“How am I going to get ashore!” asked the 
man. 

He had picked himself up and was sitting by 
Gene. Together they had been watching the burial 
of the boat’s woodwork. 

“I, I don’t know, sir,” replied Gene, gravely. 
“I’ve been trying to think out a way to get this 


82 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


lady ashore. Ah! I wish Pa were here. He’d 
know how to do it. I don’t, and unless we’re 
picked up soon,” he added in an awed little voice, 
“we’re going to freeze—die right here, Mister.” 

The girl heard and her eyes went wild with 
horror. 

“I won’t die,” she shouted hoarsely, “not like 
him. Not like that steward. Not that awful way,” 
and half to herself: “Ah! God, I can’t die now in 
the state I’m in. I can’t.” 

“Keep quiet, woman, you annoy me,” said the 
man brusquely. 

But Gene raised his hand. 

“There, there, lady. If we gotta meet it, we 
gotta. Pa always said it was the easiest an’ the 
best way out.” 

“You don’t understand,” raged Miss Madison 
hopelessly, flinging the lighted ship lantern from 
her lap. It hissed and was swallowed up. “I’m 
in no state—no state to meet Him. 0 Sacred Heart 
of Jesus, don’t let me!” 

The boy touched the visor of his cap at the 
Name, and said: “I was to Confession the First 
Friday with Pa; so I ain’t really, truly afraid. 
Ain’t you a Catholic, Mister!” 

“ I! What a question! ’ ’ 

“Then I wouldn’t care to be you,” said Gene, 
and stiff as he was he clambered back to the girl’s 
side. 

“But you are?” he asked chmnmily, looking into 
the frightened eyes. “I seen that Sacred Heart 
Badge you got pinned inside your jacket, when 
you wanted your handkerchief. ’ ’ She did not heed 
him till he repeated: 6 1 Ain’t you ? ’ ’ 



THE TRUE CAPTAIN 


83 


“Yes,” she whispered, flushing, and had to drop 
her eyes under the pure gaze. “God help me, I 
was.” She corrected herself. “I am.” 

“Then why can’t you meet Him, as you said? 
Ain’t you got His Badge on? Mine’s sewed to me 
shirt. ’ ’ 

The flush deepened on the girl’s cheek. 

4 * Because ’ ’—she hesitated— 4 4 because I haven’t 
a white garment on. ’ ’ Seeing the puzzled face be¬ 
low, she explained: “I wasn’t to Confession be¬ 
fore the First Friday, nor before many a First 
Friday.” And the terror came and stood in her 
eyes again. 

She looked out into the steel barrier of fog and 
dropping snow and her fingers spasmodically 
clasped and loosened. 

The man facing them had resumed his despair¬ 
ing posture, head sunk in crouched shoulders, and 
to Gene he looked as one fallen into a deep sleep. 
It was coldly still and the boy caught himself 
watching the steamy breathing of the sleeper. 

But though Gene saw him, his mind was busy 
elsewhere. Miss Madison’s last words struck him 
as stingingly as the beads of spray that now, un¬ 
checked, scattered over the gunwale. How could 
he help her? As a true captain, he had to. 

He fought the sleepy feeling as he thought and 
thought. 

And as he watched the girl’s hands work stiff as 
a doll’s, there came to his mind, like the flare of a 
match in the dark, a promise that Sacred Heart had 
made, and he found himself repeating and repeat¬ 
ing it. Why! this crying lady, who wore His pro¬ 
tecting Badge, must be a sinner, and she’s for- 


84 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


gotten what He said He’d be to all such that were 
sorry. 

He touched the girl. 

“ ’Scuse me, Miss, but ain’t you forgetting? 
’Member what He promised sinners’d find His 
Heart to be? You ain’t afraid to trust Him, are 
you?” With much effort, he lifted an unfeeling 
arm and nudged her. ‘‘Are you?” 

She shook her head. 

‘ 4 Brace up then, lady, an’ be a man. Make an 
Act of Contrition, and make it good. Here, say it 
with me now, ’ ’ and Gene commenced: 

“0 my God.” 

“0 my God,” faltered a weak voice. 

“I’m heartily sorry.” 

“I’m heartily sorry.” The same voice with 
growing confidence. 

And thus litany-like, down to the twin i i Amens, ’ ’ 
sounded\the petition for forgiveness to “the In¬ 
finite Ocean of Mercy.” 

When it was silence again, the girl was weeping, 
but not hysterically. New strength had come to 
her, new strength to face what she knew must be 
soon. She whispered to the boy: 

“Thank you, lad. You are a true captain.” 

“That’s all right, lady,” said Gene, drowsily. 
The effort to think had made him very weary, and 
he felt himself dozing. 

Across the invisible waters traveled the blast of 
a foghorn. Gene half opened his eyes and listened. 
The blast was repeated louder, and now almost 
awake, he faced the sound. The blast was repeated 
closer. Softly as the approach of a cloud’s 
shadow, save for the slap, slap of the waves 


THE TRUE CAPTAIN 


85 


against her blunt cutwater, a schooner, with her 
mainsail and jib set, and her port light burning 
palely red in the morning air, parted the dim edge 
of the fog. The boy, alert to his responsibility, 
attempted a cry, but again the foghorn blew and 
the fog closed in like rich draperies and hid the 
schooner. 

He dropped back, and he did not check the tears 
of failure that welled up. Later he called: 

“Lady! I say, lady.” But she paid no atten¬ 
tion. Solid she sat, and as the slight swells from 
the schooner rolled in and rocked the lifeboat, her 
body rocked as one with the boat. 

Again the pleasant drowsiness crept up to the 
boy. He felt his soul shrinking up, inch by inch, 
out of his legs and arms, leaving them useless dead 
things. He was no longer cold. He was beyond 
that, and so he, like the boat, drifted, drifted. 

Once again, as though in answer to a question, 
very sleepily, he murmured: 

“Well, I done my best, and, yes, I have been a 
true—a true-” 

“Captain ,’ 9 called the Grim Angel, stooping for 
the last time, over the drifting lifeboat. 



DORA DARE’S LAST SUCCESS 


H ER admirers on five continents heard with a 
shock of the sndden death of Miss Dora Dare. 
The news item, that wire and cable carried out of 
Los Angeles and flashed around the movie world, 
stated that their favorite had contracted pneu¬ 
monia at Screen City, while finishing her new 
photoplay, “The Daughters of Diana.” Of course, 
this news item did not mention that a priest was 
summoned in haste to Miss Dare’s bungalow and 
administered the Last Sacraments shortly before 
she expired. 

When in the course of events “The Daughters 
of Diana” was released, it was featured as “Dora 
Dare’s Last Success” and in a nasty artistic sense 
it was. 

A year after “The Daughters of Diana” first 
appeared, an angel of Purgatory stood by the 
atoning soul of Dora Dare and commanded: 

“Come with me. It is in thy punishment that 
I must show thee a little of the world and the flesh 
and the other element that is in thy great sin.” 

The gleaming angel conducted the soul to a 
populous capital of a far-flung empire. Dora Dare 
at once recognized this city, its power fittingly 
symbolized by the stately bronze lions that for- 

86 


DORA DARE’S LAST SUCCESS 


87 


ever sniff the four winds in the square commemo¬ 
rating a great sea victory of that empire. They, 
the angel and the soul, passed into a marble movie 
theater and took their unseen places in the 
shadows of a box. Before them sat a young 
woman alone. This woman’s attention was on the 
screen and Dora Dare, with new pain, recognized 
the photoplay. The scene showed Miss Dora Dare 
in her “Dance to Dives.” In this dance she had, 
with Oriental lavishness of setting, interpreted 
the desirability of wealth, its tremendous power 
to command, and unlimited power to satisfy things 
earthly. As the silent dance finished and the view 
merged, the angel of Purgatory pointed to the 
young woman, who had risen from her chair. Said 
the angel: 

“We shall follow her.” 

And they did, out through a baffling fog and into 
the cosiness of a tiny apartment, expensively 
plain. The young woman, just home, was seating 
herself at a writing desk and for many minutes 
she remained there, still hatted and gloved. Then, 
as at a signal, she drew off her glove and exposed 
a solitaire ring. She dallied with that, slipping it 
on and half off. While Dora watched and won¬ 
dered, the young woman seemed to come to some 
definite decision, for she plucked the solitaire from 
her finger and sought feverishly among the pigeon 
holes in front of her, till she had found a jeweler’s 
box. 

She looked once at the small diamond, pure and 
sparkling—true token of a good man’s love—and 
then her eyes fell upon the crumpled program she 
had brought from the movie theater, and she 


88 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


hummed the music the orchestra had played for 
“The Dance to Dives.’’ With a sigh, she pushed 
the engagement ring into the plush, and, wrapping 
up the package, addressed it to “Mr. John 
Spartan.” Calling her maid, she ordered her to 
post it immediately. When the maid had left, the 
young woman picked up the desk phone and gave 
a number. After a moment she asked: 

“Lord Cecil Sybarite’s?” 

“Yes; Miss Behan would like to speak with him, 
please.” 

Then, “Cecil?” And the young woman spoke 
laughingly. 

This view flashed from Dora Dare’s gaze like 
the sudden breaking of a film, and she heard the 
angel of Purgatory say in his wise way: 

4 4 That John Spartan was decent. As poor Lady 
Sybarite she will have great wealth and great 
misery.” 

44 But,” asked Dora, “why, why did she throw 
over John?” 

Said her guide: 

4 4 He could only offer her a modest home and 
happiness.” 

And the angel added: 

4 4 4 Dora Dare’s Last Success’ preaches the wis¬ 
dom of the world. Unfortunately, Miss Behan is 
one of a myriad who received your false lesson at 
a critical period.” 

4 4 But, but, I never meant—” explained the soul 
of Dora Dare. 

The angel stopped her. Then he said: 

“ 4 The Daughters of Diana’ is most successful 


DORA DARE’S LAST SUCCESS 


89 


in teaching other, wrecking lessons. Yon shall 
see.” 

Again they were in a city, utterly strange to the 
eyes of Dora Dare. A fair and foul metropolis 
spread under the voluptuous warmth of a black, 
silver-spangled sky. Hidden tomtoms beat as un¬ 
ceasingly as the human heart, and plaintive reed 
instruments filled the night air. In from the dark 
waters of a warm sea blew a languid breeze, cool¬ 
ing somewhat the tropical heat of daylight, that 
still clung, like evil, to this vast city. Pagan 
domes and white, slender minarets lifted up above 
feathery palm tops. Brown-limbed natives, with 
painted caste marks on their foreheads, natives 
turbaned and fezzed and jeweled, thronged the 
narrow, soft-lighted roads and buzzed like bees 
in the brighter bazaars. Veiled shadows moved 
across latticed upper galleries and soft laughter 
floated down. 

Suddenly, while Dora was still bewildered by 
the multi-colored life of this living, moving 
Arabian Nights’ scene, she saw a boyish-looking 
man, alertly American in immaculate white and 
evening straw, pass in that pagan crowd. The angel 
made a signal and Dora understood part of her 
punishment was to follow this countryman of 
hers. 

He tossed away his cigarette and turned briskly 
into a crowded theater compound, over the en¬ 
trance of which, in blazing electric bulbs, curved 
the legend, “The Bombay Cinema,” and to Dora’s 
dismay, in larger letters of light, she read: “The 
Daughters of Diana.” 

Once more the angel and Dora took their unseen 


90 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


places behind the seat this boyish American had 
chosen. It was an intermission between reels, and 
the lights were on. She saw this clean-cut Yankee 
enter into conversation with his neighbor, an aged 
young man, who addressed him familiarly as 
“Doctor Sahib.’’ There was something in¬ 
stinctively unwholesome about this aged young 
man, with his full lips and his unquiet eyes, that 
repelled the chastened soul of Dora Dare. 

Then the house darkened and the photoplay 
flickered on again. It was the fourth reel, that 
featured Miss Dare in her dance, her “Dance of 
Daphne.” (It was in filming this scene that Dora 
Dare had contracted her fatal sickness.) The boy¬ 
ish American, after several glances toward the 
screen, dropped his eyes modestly, and once, to 
her delight, he made as though he would rise and 
leave, but the aged young man said something 
tauntingly, seizing his hand to detain him, and the 
other sank shamedly back into his seat. The native 
rows down in front were applauding vigorously. 

“The Dance of Daphne” continued and drew 
toward its finale. With renewed pain Dora Dare 
now saw that the clean-cut American w T as gazing 
his fill at the seductive screen, and into his eyes 
had come something of the unquietness that 
offended her in the aged young man. Dora Dare 
cried out: “Don’t. Don’t, sir.” 

But only the angel heard her of all that still, 
crowded house, and he admonished her: 

“Dora, you are of Purgatory, dead. It is too 
late for you to advise the living. Your ‘ Dance of 
Daphne’ is a ‘Dance of Death’ to many.” 



DORA DARE'S LAST SUCCESS 


91 


Then into the voice of the angel came something 
of the seer, and he said, so sadly: 

44 This young American's body will be found at 
dawn in a native road, his throat cut." 

As Dora Dare stood in horror, realizing her 
helplessness to avert this eternal wreck of her 
doing, the scene faded, faded. 

And the angel was saying: 

“In your great sin is also the other element. 
Mercifully, I am to lift this veil but for a brief 
moment. '’ 

Then the angel moved nearer and he touched the 
soul of Dora Dare. She was beholding again, 
from gray ocean to blue ocean, her beloved native 
land. She beheld its cities straddling busy rivers, 
and its towns on the plains, and even its villages 
in valleys. 

Then she was seeing in each of these centers, at 
once, together, the interiors of the many movie 
houses that were showing “Dora Dare's Last 
Success." Everywhere, among these silent audi¬ 
ences, like whitecaps on a troubled sea, gazed up 
the children: boys who were babes a few years 
ago and girls yet of doll age; lads and lassies in 
their teens; young men and many maidens. 

Said the angel: 

“Look well at your awful success, Dora Dare." 

And he lifted aside the veil of things so that 
she saw all, as though through the keen Eyes of 
God. 

She saw that other element traveling out and out, 
ever out with every changing light and shadow 
of “The Daughters of Diana," and down into 
those wondering young eyes. She saw in that long 


92 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


second living evil, like some foul dew, settling on 
these fresh myriads of youth, and dimming their 
souls’ radiance into gray, and grayer, and black. 
With a great cry, that wrenched the supports of 
her being, the pardoned soul of Dora Dare cried 
out her anguish at this true sight of her sin that 
had not died. And the angel of Purgatory dropped 
the veil. 

Then he spoke: 

‘ i Dora, Our Master hath shown thee infinite 
mercy.” 

“Those children! His little ones! I did not 
realize!” 

“You sow and those innocents reap; so farms 
the world,” said the angel of Purgatory in sorrow. 

“But I may pray,” cried Dora Dare hopefully. 

Then, for the second time, the welcome Gates of 
God’s Forgiveness closed over the soul of Dora 
Dare. 


THE OTHER BOY 

“TpATHER, there’s more than appendicitis the 

J- matter with that man in No. 22.” The day 
Sister was walking with the chaplain toward St. 
Stanislaus’ Ward. 

“.That young patient with the graying hair?” 

Sister nodded. 

“You think physical or spiritual?” queried the 
priest, raising his eyebrows. 

The nun clasped the white-knotted cord that 
hung at the side of her black habit, and started to 
twist it about her fingers. 

“Dr. Kelvin said he might get up for a couple 
of hours to-day, Father. His physical condition is 
most satisfactory.” 

“But Sister Gonzaga suspects his spiritual con¬ 
dition is not—eh?” Father Ryan spread out his 
hands, palms up. “Can I do anything? He’s 
not one of us, Sister—I learned this emphatically 
the morning after his operation. That scapular 
medal he wore made me make a natural mistake. 
However, I’ll speak to him again.” And the 
chaplain of St. Mary’s Hospital entered the ward 
on his morning rounds. 

The immense room, with its two rows of white 
beds and their silent figures, stretched down to 

93 



94 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


where the cheery sun streamed in bright bars 
through the long southerly windows. 

Father Ryan moved and spoke. Finally, he 
stopped for a brief word with the old Italian who 
lay, like a chiseled bit of time-worn marble, 
propped up in bed No. 21; and then, meeting the 
watching face beyond, crossed smilingly and 
leaned on the enameled medicine table. 

‘ 4 Sister tells me doctor’s going to let you up for 
a while to-day, Mr.—isn’t it Dundy?” 

A lean hand on which the blue veins showed, 
lifted listlessly from the blanket and took the 
priest’s. 

‘ 4 Frank Dundy, Father. Yes. Kelvin took a 
look at the incision yesterday, and said I might 
get back on my feet for a few hours to-day.” 

“Well, be careful. You’ll find yourself moving 
in a very wabbly world at first. How long have 
you been in bed now?” 

“Eleven or twelve days” (wearily). “One 
loses track lying here, Father. The life’s as dull 
as a Kansas prairie, and Lord knows that’s-” 

“Yes; ‘horizontal days’ seem eternal, but 
they’re the disguised blessing sometimes. Make 
us think of our utter dependence on Him, who 
gives and takes.” 

The tired light in the pale face flickered and 
dropped out, and in its place shot the red of pain. 

“Takes? Yes, He takes.” 

The man brushed back the grayish hair from his 
forehead as he turned on his far side, and Father 
Ryan noticed how boyish, yet old, the profile on 
the pillow seemed. He checked his impulse to 
move away, and said sympathetically: 



THE OTHER BOY 


95 


“We all have sad memories, Mr. Dundy.’’ 

After a quiet minute the priest picked up and 
toyed with the empty tumbler on the stand. 

From the Children’s Room, just off the ward, 
came a shriek; a deeper silence, and a shrill: 

‘ 4 Oh, it hurts, Doctor! It h-u-r-ts ! 9 9 

The patient turned back to the priest suddenly. 

“It’s that I can’t stand, or understand—chil¬ 
dren’s suffering. They’ve done nothing to de¬ 
serve it. It’s different, perhaps, with grown-ups; 
but innocent kids—no.” 

“Oh, it h-u-r-ts!” rang high again. “Doctor, 
oh!— oh!” 

Dundy’s teeth clicked like a sprung trap and he 
quivered. 

“That’s that boy with the infected knee. 
They’re probing.” Then he continued bitterly: 
“Yes, Father; ‘horizontal days,’ as you call them, 
compel one to think many thoughts'. This is my 
first taste of hospital life, and these sick-a-bed 
days have driven it home to me that” (bitterly) 

‘ ‘ an all-tender and all-loving God, such as you and 
the other sects picture, does not shade in with the 
facts.” 

Seeing the pitying expression on the chaplain, 
he stopped. 

“Pardon, Father! I didn’t mean to speak so 
frankly. Kids’ sufferings always rile me. You see, 
I had to stand by helplessly and see my little son 
die a year ago; and with his going” (he tossed his 
head) “went any belief in an ‘Old Home Week’ 
celebration after the cemetery. Hope I haven’t 
offended. Never meant to—but here comes the 
day nurse after my pulse and temperature.” He 


96 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


stretched criit a dismissing hand. “I’d like very 
much to believe as you do, sir; and if anything 
would make me shut my eyes to facts, and leap at 
Catholic beliefs, it’s your doctrine of meeting the 
dead, our dead, again. But good-morning, 
Father!—Good-morning, Miss Miller!” 

The chaplain drew near the Children’s Boom, 
and, as he passed out of the ward, looked back at 
bed No. 22, where the trim young person, in fresh 
blue and white, was gazing at her watch and hold¬ 
ing the wrist of the motionless man. 

Wise Father Byan murmured: 

“ ‘My little son’! So that’s the cross that’s 
crushed this nice young fellow!” And he jotted 
down a mental note to give him a special intention 
in his next day’s Mass. 

Dundy was glad to stretch down limply into 
the fresh sheets after his few hours up, and 
resume his watch on the passing day. He now 
knew every link in the chain from night to night 
—the daylight strong on that red brick house with 
the stone facings across the street; the restless¬ 
ness of waking patients, and breakfast; the chat¬ 
tering of children hurrying in the street below, 
and the deep school bell that broke it off; then the 
day Sister’s visit, and her kindly words; and the 
coming of the fussy interns, dressed as though for 
a set of tennis, and their loud-voiced commands. 
And occasionally an orderly, all in white, would 
lead a bath-robed figure by the bed of Dundy; and 
hours later there would sound, growing louder, the 
clack, clack of the carriage, on which lay the same 
figure, now still and under a blanket; and soon the 


THE OTHER BOY 


97 


sicky-sweet ether smell would fill the whole apart¬ 
ment. 

Then the lame telephone boy, with his bundle of 
papers and mail, would enter, and leave empty- 
handed ; and the convalescents would nod and drag 
by on their way to where the potted palms swayed 
by the warm windows. Dundy could hear the half 
circle forever describing their complaints, and the 
hush that would fall on them when the imperative 
gong of the ambulance sounded in the yard. 

Then he would read and read, down to the last 
“ad”; and be interrupted by the smiling nurse 
setting his dinner tray at his elbow. And always 
while he was eating, a full-throated bell would 
boom out from the tower on the corner, and Sister 
Gonzaga would stop and stand recollected for a 
moment and finger her beads. Then he slept, and 
awoke as visitors crowded in noisily for the after¬ 
noon hour. After that, quiet again, the creeping 
shadows, supper; the short evening, the new nurse 
making her rounds, the grateful gloom of the night 
lights, and then every kind of breathing. 

Such was the ward cycle as Dundy learned to 
know it while his incision healed, and he told time 
by these regularly; but to-night something un¬ 
usual was happening. 

The night Sister, with the wisp of a brogue and 
the German name that he could never remember, 
stopped long over his neighbor; and, instead of 
passing on to his side, called the orderly; and he 
brought the long, white screen, and together they 
set it up about the bed of the old Italian, shutting 
him out from the gaze of the ward. Twice during 
the night, half awake, Dundy thought he heard 


98 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


voices; and once the click, click of the carriage. 
Next morning he turned on his left side and saw 
the long, white screen was gone and there was a 
stripped bed. When Sister Gonzaga came he 
asked her about his neighbor, and she said: 

“Yes, the poor old man is safe and happy now 
with God and all his own. He was a last leaf. 
Sister Berengaria found him low, and when 
Father arrived the body was still warm, and he 
anointed him. So they come and go home, Mr. 
Dundy. ’ ’ 

The day Sister started to move toward the 
Children’s Room. 

“Sister, give my regards to young ‘Infected 
Knee’ and the other kids. How are they this 
morning ? ’’ 

“The three are doing nicely,” she answered. 
‘ ‘ But there’s a very sick boy who was brought in 
last evening . 99 She saw the interested eyes. “You 
like children; don’t you, Mr. Dundy?” 

“Yes—that is, boys,” said Dundy, distinguish¬ 
ing his reply. “I have reason to. My Francie 
would have been ten, day after to-morrow. ’ ’ And 
he was silent. 

When the sun was high and he had dressed, he 
asked Sister Gonzaga if he might visit the 
Children’s Room. 

“Why, certainly, Mr. Dundy.” And she went 
with him, walking slowly, and said from the thres¬ 
hold: “Boys, here’s the gentleman who’s been 
sending regards to you.” 

Dundy smiled on the suddenly solemn cribs; but 
the silence did not long continue in the square, 
bright room, which looked on the blinding snow- 


THE OTHER BOY 


99 


packed street. For Frank Dundy knew the little 
traveled path to the boy heart, and soon there 
were laughter and chatter again. 

“Mac, old man,” he asked of the six-year-old 
whose wizened face and nice teeth appeared above 
the bars of the far crib, “Sister told me there were 
four sick boys. I see only three, and”—quizzingly 
— 4 4 none of them appears fatally ill. Where’s the 
really and truly sick boy 1 7 7 

“He was in that empty crib by the steampipes,” 
volunteered Tommie, whose infected knee kept him 
on the broad of his back—a disadvantage he 
remedied by craning his neck. 

“But that nurse put him in there after the 
doctors came and seen him,” “Mac” completed 
the sentence by pointing across the hallway. 

But Dundy was not listening. He had heard, 
coming from the room at his back, the troubled 
voice of a lad, calling; and the strangely familiar 
voice thrilled him. 

“That’s fine, Mac!” he said distractedly. “I’m 
going to leave you fellows now—mustn’t stay too 
long on a first visit, but I’ll come again,” said the 
convalescent, as he waved a farewell hand and 
closed the door. 

The opposite door stood ajar. He pushed it 
back on its hinges, and found himself looking into 
a small high room, that was painted a soothing 
green halfway up the walls. 

In the bed, and staring at the far ceiling, was 
the very sick boy. Above the tossed brown hair, 
like a jaunty Tam O’Shanter, rested an ice cap; 
but it was the full brown eyes, the brown skin, and 
the half-open baby lips that held Dundy as in a 


100 


IN GOD'S COUNTRY 


vise. For the face above the blanket was, feature 
for feature, the face he had seen for the final time 
when he looked through the screen of his little 
son's coffin. 

Dundy, his finger nails cutting into the palms of 
his hands, neared the bed and gazed down. Long 
and hungrily he looked on this other boy—or was 
it his own Francie dying again? 

Blinded, he turned away to peer into the bleak 
hospital yard, where by the bare trees stood the 
shrine of the Lady and the Babe. He knew whom 
the group represented: it was the Mother and her 
Son to whose care his gasping wife had confided 
their Francie. And, then, three months later the 
rosy boy, who had stood frightened and clinging 
to his hand as the earth rattled on her box, lay 
under the next mound, and he had come away, a 
lonely old man of thirty-five. Ah, broken and dark 
and Godless had been the last twelve months! 

“Oh, here you are, Mr. Dundy! Sister was 
wondering what had become of you." 

The man wheeled about and blinked at Miss 
Miller. 

“Yes; I was talking to the kids there," he 
nodded across the hallway; “and I heard this little 
lad speak." 

‘ 1 Poor boy! He’s in bad shape. ’ 9 

Miss Miller was tying a large white apron over 
her blue-and-white-uniform. 

“What is it?" 

“Typhoid I thought when they brought him in 
last night—been having sharp headaches for a 
week at home—but doctor says tubercular menin¬ 
gitis, and that’s"— 


THE OTHER BOY 101 

She did not finish, but there was no need. Dundy 
knew. 

The nurse had her protecting apron tied. 

“Frank!” she called, lifting the feverish head 
and patting the hot pillows into shape. “Frank, 
how are you feeling ?” 

There was no answer, but the flushed face 
dropped back and the eyes closed. She straight¬ 
ened the ice cap. 

‘ 4 Frank ? Is that his name, ’’ softly inquired the 
man at the foot of the bed; and he started as the 
boy flung a curved arm over his head—a gesture 
he well remembered. 

“Yes: Frank—Francis—oh, I forget!” Miss 
Miller reached for the chart that hung on the wall. 
“Here it is.” 

Dundy checked her. 

“Don’t, Miss, please. I’d rather not hear the last 
name.” 

She looked at him curiously, then began to 
smooth the blankets. 

The boy before them moaned, and in a querulous 
voice cried: 

‘ ‘ Pa, pa! I say, pa! ” And the wide brown eyes 
opened to the ceiling, and, glancing down, rested 
full on the tense face of Dundy. 

“He’s been that way, calling and talking, all 
night.—Frankie, Frankie, go to sleep now. That’s 
a good boy!—Poor little fellow, I think he’s going 
to—” 

But suddenly the nurse found herself alone in 
the room with the delirious boy. 

Long after the ward had been shrouded in the 
dim light that the frosted electrics cast, the patient 


102 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


in No. 22 lay with wide eyes; and when dreams did 
come, they were of a little lad of ten, who now lay 
tossing in a white crib, and now forever still in a 
white-clothed coffin. 

Father Ryan, as he passed on his morning 
rounds, saw that Mr. Dundy was sleeping; but, re¬ 
turning from the Children’s Room, he heard his 
name called. 

4 ‘ Father, how is that very sick boy in the small 
room?” 

‘ 4 The little chap’s conscious, but low, Mr. 
Dundy. I’ve just heard his confession. If he’s as 
well as this to-morrow, I’ll let him make his First 
Communion.” The chaplain recalled his conver¬ 
sation of the other morning, and he added: “You 
know what I mean?” 

“Yes: my wife and little son were both 
Catholics.” 

Then the priest understood what had loosened 
the tongue of this patient. He hesitated at first to 
speak of the mysteriously wise ways of God to 
one who had told him he disbelieved; but after¬ 
ward he was glad he did so. And all through his 
daily duties Father Ryan carried before him the 
picture of this hungry, lonely soul, and he won¬ 
dered what designs Our Lord had in bringing to¬ 
gether Frank Dundy and the double of his little 
son. 

Sister Gonzaga found a thoughtful invalid when 
she came to No. 22 to tell him he might get up. 
And she thought it well to warn him not to go near 
the very sick boy, for his disease was contagious. 

Dundy assured her he would keep away from 
the small room, but he sent the orderly out for 


THE OTHER BOY 


103 


large oranges and carried three to the Children’s 
Room. After his return he sat with the conva¬ 
lescents down by the sunlight and the palms, and 
listened to all their troubles, though he did not tell 
them his own. 

Back to an early bed and his memories, the de¬ 
sire came, strong and persistent as a flood tide, to 
see this other boy make what the chaplain had 
called, “his First Communion.” He remembered 
his little Francie’s face the morning the lad had 
come home with his mother after his First Com¬ 
munion, and how he had stooped down and rever¬ 
ently kissed the glowing upturned face. So during 
the afternoon he stopped the day Sister and asked 
permission to see the very sick boy “receive.” 
Listening, Sister Gonzaga balanced the spiritual 
gain against the physical risk, and she said she 
would call him in time. 

‘ ‘ Sister says you may get up now, Mr. Dundy; 
and when you’re dressed come to the small isola¬ 
tion cell,” commanded Miss Miller, as she took 
away his breakfast tray. 

Dundy found Sister Gonzaga arranging a low 
table, covered with an immaculate cloth, on which 
stood candles and a crucifix and a glass, half full 
of water, and by it a spoon. She put her finger to 
her lips, then pointed to a chair between the foot 
of the bed and the greenish wall. When she had 
everything ready she called: 

“Frank!” 

“Yes, Sister!” said a wee tired voice—such a 
voice as the man in the chair only too well remem¬ 
bered. 


i 


104 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


4 ‘ Frank, Father will be here very soon now, and 
you know Whom he’s bringing?” 

“Yes, Sister,” said the same voice. 

“Well, then, close your eyes till Father comes. 
You’re comfortable?” 

“Yes, Sister.” 

Sister Gonzaga pulled up the snowy counter¬ 
pane and tucked it in; then she came and whis¬ 
pered to the observing man: 

“He’s very weak—possibly this First Com¬ 
munion is Viaticum—but, thank God, quite con¬ 
scious! I envy the little fellow, don’t you? Just 
think! Soon the long siege of pain will be forever 
over and he’ll go straight to heaven, and who 
knows what evils the future might have held for 
him? I’ll be back in a little while.” And she 
half closed the door. 

When the day Sister’s footsteps ceased in the 
ward, Dundy got up quietly and turned toward the 
resemblance on the pillow. It was very still in 
the little room. 

‘ ‘ ‘ Straight to heaven, and who knows what evils 
the future might have held for him ? ’ ’ said Dundy 
to himself; and he repeated: “Straight to 
heaven. ’ ’ 

A shrill bell sounded from St. Stanislaus’ Ward, 
and grew louder. Sister Gonzaga hurried in and 
lit the candles; then she knelt and bent low as the 
shrill bell jingled in the hallway. There was a 
tramp of feet, and Dundy caught a glimpse of a 
round-faced boy in red and white; and after him 
the priest, with a long silk and gold veil across his 
shoulders, the ends laid over his clasped hands. 

Father Ryan, noticing no one in the room, 


THE OTHER BOY 


105 


walked to the stand and stooped. When he 
straightened, he faced the sick boy, and the man 
in the chair heard him murmuring something in 
Latin, and saw his right hand rise and descend, at 
which the kneeling nun made the Sign of the 
Cross. Then the priest picked up most reverently 
a white Particle from among those that lay in the 
open silver box, and again he faced Frank, and 
this time Sister rose, and, putting her arm under 
the boy’s shoulder, lifted him slightly. The priest 
bent over the bed and placed on the outstretched 
tongue what looked to the man like a tiny half 
moon, then Sister withdrew her arm, the head 
dropped back into the pillow, and Dundy heard the 
shrill bell growing fainter and fainter. 

4 ‘You may sit here a while, or go back to St. 
Stanislaussaid Sister Gonzaga, in a low tone, 
as she carried the still smoking candles away with 
her. 

Frank Dundy chose the former; for this sight 
of a First Communion had warmed him through 
and through. His eyes kept going to the young 
face with the closed eyes, that looked suddenly 
mature and completely satisfied. And as he stood 
again, clasping the cold iron of the foot of the bed, 
and deep in his memories of another last bed, there 
came to him the truth, as convincing as a visible 
thing, that this was the entrance to a greater life, 
a real life; and that his own Francie had but gone 
before, and that he still lived. With this convic¬ 
tion strong upon him, the father looked down at 
the still countenance, and then up, and he whis¬ 
pered : 


106 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


“My Francie—my own Francie, meet and wel¬ 
come this namesake; will you, boy?” 

His lips ceased, and he felt as though his soul 
stood at the end of blackness, and faced a thin 
door, under which escaped the glow of a mighty 
light. He knew he no longer groped in the despair¬ 
ing dark: his eyes had been touched and he saw. 

He looked again enviously on the quiet lids below 
him, then ever so softly tiptoed to the door and 
closed it after him. His heart was too full of his 
new knowledge to visit the Children’s Room, but 
in the hallway he stopped and murmured: 

“0 God of little boys, God of my Francie, I do 
believe! ’ 9 

And at that moment on the borders of a fair 
kingdom a bewildered little boy was being clasped 
and welcomed by a brighter counterpart, who kept 
repeating: 

“0 Frankie, it was you—you brought Faith to 
my father ! 9 9 


MUCH FRUIT 


I T WAS toward evening of this seventeenth cen¬ 
tury day when the Black Robe and his Ana- 
costan guide entered the strange ravine. A grove 
of ancient beeches threw a grayish tinge across 
the trail, and between the lacery of leafless 
branches mosaics of an autumn day showed. 
Something more than these favorite color com¬ 
binations in this blue and gray dale gently drew 
the Black Robe ’s attention. It was as though this 
utterly new bit of wilderness, leading to the 
Piscatoway village, were familiar grounds, and he 
had suddenly walked into a dear haunt of boy¬ 
hood. Old, dear memories of distant woods of his 
own estate and happy autumn tramps; a feeling of 
God and His holy ones flooded the missioner’s 
heart. He forgot his savage destination and his 
companion to surrender himself to this sense of 
unearthly peace. 

Up the side of this homelike ravine a bird called, 
shrill and long. Even to the civilized ears of the 
Black Robe the note jarred upon the woody set¬ 
ting, and he looked sharply at the Anacostan. His 
painted guide with a warning grunt stopped the 
priest’s steps and loosening his knife glided into 
the tangled silence ahead. Quickly the gray silent 
beeches hid him in their depths. 

107 


108 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


The Anacostan did not return. Once the same 
shrill bird called again and the silences grew 
stiller, broken occasionally by the scamperings of 
the gray squirrels and the dropping of burs into 
the dead leaves. 

At length, the stillness drove the missioner up 
the narrow trail alone. 

He had climbed scarcely an hundred yards, when 
at a turn, amid the withered leaves of a tall beech, 
he found his Christian Indian with gaping side ly¬ 
ing quite motionless. Stooping to absolve condi¬ 
tionally, the missioner saw the black scalp lock 
was missing. 

The Black Robe was trembling when he 
straightened again. The quiet ravine had become 
ominous; the shadows, fearsome. Pagan eyes, that 
held no love for such messages as he bore, watched 
from the deepening shadows. But he had come 
far and he must go farther. He had glad tidings 
to announce to those unenlightened souls in the 
village of the Piscatoways, and even though he 
could not reach them, he would try. 

Despite a trembling, over which he had scant 
control, the Black Robe left the poor disfigured 
body there in the stained leaves and started up 
this strangely familiar ravine. 

His hand sought the crucifix at his side and as 
he touched strength, a verse from his breviary 
flashed up in his mind. He repeated the lines half 
aloud, “Unless the grain of wheat falling into the 
ground die, itself remaineth alone. But—” 

The Black Robe never finished these words of 
his Master. For as he walked erect, his eyes fixed 
on the blue sky, an evil shadow crept from behind 


MUCH FRUIT 


109 


a giant gray bole. There was a quick pain in his 
head and the trail struck him violently. The 
shadow that had moved became a lithe, bronzed 
figure of paint and feathers. Noiselessly as a 
leopard alights, it dropped on his shoulders. The 
Black Robe felt a new, fierce fire circle the crown 
of his head. He murmured his Blessed Master’s 
Name as the pain became unbearable. Then all 
sense of torture ceased. 

It was moonlight, brilliant, cold moonlight, 
when the Black Robe revived. A cool-nosed animal 
was nozzling him and it crashed away into the 
night when he stirred. He sat up like a Dying 
Gaul, and the silvered world of beeches danced 
fantastically about him. He thought he was in one 
of Dante’s forests. Soon he remembered aright, 
and the dance of the ancient beeches was joyous, 
sedate. To his imagination the beeches beyond it 
reared up into the heavens like dark olive trees, 
and as he rested he repeated aloud: “Geth- 
semani! ’ ’ 

Like some awkward animal, he attempted to 
crawl up the ravine toward the watching beeches. 
Pain and thirst and numbness strove like deter¬ 
mined demons to hold him back. 

On hands and knees, he came to dark water that 
hurried across the trail. He would have dropped 
his head into this welcome barrier and wetted his 
parched lips. He realized the touch of this little 
brook would be balm to the circle of pain atop his 
head. But a nobler thought came and he uttered 
thickly: “Cedron, the Brook Cedron,” and went 
on with dry lips. 


110 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


Beyond the stream he crawled into moonlight 
again, and the ravine led steeply up. Always the 
branches of the ancient beeches beckoned, inviting 
him to follow them up the hill. Something holy 
within him urged him to accept. It took him hours, 
from beech to beech, with great periods of exhaus¬ 
tion, when his face sank into the wet leaves. At 
times he prayed aloud bits of his breviary. At 
times, the Holy Name, repeated with each labored 
breathing, was all he was able to ejaculate. All 
the way up, the gray beeches of this friendly 
ravine guided him, supported him, encouraged 
him. 

The darkness that precedes the dawn found the 
Black Robe out of this ravine and on the top of a 
hill, where a cool breeze blew. 

6i God’s will!” said th^ Black Robe, and he sank 
down at the base of a mighty beech and surrend¬ 
ered himself to exhaustion. With head pillowed 
against the strong friendly tree, the Black Robe 
looked about him. Night was nearly over. Below 
him in the first still lights of dawn, a placid river 
circled darkly into the south around a black 
forested island. He knew this broad stream was 
the River of Swans—Cohonguroton, as the Ana- 
costans called it. A canoe on its bosom could have 
borne him swiftly down to St. Mary’s City and the 
aid of friends, but he realized gladly that was not 
to be. He was looking on his last horizons. 

The gray light strengthened in the east, and he 
turned to gaze dreamily over the quiet rolling 
landscape to the blue hills beyond. 

This vista started another chain of thoughts, 
and he found himself looking out across the years 


MUCH FRUIT 


111 


of his life. The brief, arduous months in The 
Colony since he had left the deck of “The Dove.” 
The busy professor years at cloistered St. Omer’s 
and his constant dream of carrying God’s learning 
across the Western Ocean. The happy novitiate 
in eternal Rome, when he had first dreamed his 
dream. 

The pale Black Robe spanned his past into that 
bright Oxford day of the long ago, when Faith had 
touched his eyes and he had made the sacrifice of 
title and acres in Kent. Contentedly he saw his 
dream was not to be. It was to lie with him here 
in this strangely friendly ravine. 

Then out of the great beech over his head a 
small prickly bur fell beside him and his hand 
closed over it. Again the verse he had been pray¬ 
ing when he was ambushed came into the Black 
Robe’s mind, and he recited it slowly with long 
pauses, “Unless the grain of wheat—falling into 
the ground—die—itself remaineth alone. But if 
it—die ” 

While the day strengthened about him he medi¬ 
tated the ending of that sentence, and suddenly 
its meaning rose upon him blindingly like the sun 
across the sea. 

Fighting off the strong weakness that was em¬ 
bracing him; rather, emboldened with the courage 
of the one who has conquered and now claims his 
reward exceedingly great, the Black Robe strove 
to form his last words. He gazed about him on 
this autumn scene—this hill that banked the placid 
river and below into the friendly ravine with its 
groves of gaunt, gray beech and the dark blue 
western sky above them. The words of his last 





112 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


wish came faintly. His head dropped back con¬ 
tentedly against the great gray bole, and with 
happy effort he closed his eyes. 

Or had he closed his eyes, for the last lingering 
shadows of night were speeding away. Gray out¬ 
lines under a fair blue heaven were shaping them¬ 
selves. 

Noon and summer had come overquickly, and 
the autumn dawn of wilderness about the Black 
Robe gave them place. Beech shaded walks led 
down into the friendly ravine, and on their way 
passed reverently the place of his agony, where 
now in green-mounded rows the holy dead slept. 

Upon this hill gray outlines grew more distinct, 
and from them emerged long gray walls and slim 
towers against a serene sky. Set in smooth shaven 
lawns, this noble pile of buildings of unfamiliar 
architecture overlooked a mighty city, where in 
the distance a great white dome and a needle of 
sheer granite appeared. 

Here above the friendly ravine a gray uni¬ 
versity arose, majestic as any the Black Robe had 
ever seen in old Europe; and out of its portals 
came the youth of a new, splendid race. They 
passed down from this hill of their Alma Mater 
into the mighty city and out beyond into other 
cities and the world. 

And yet arose other gray buildings, and count¬ 
less youths came and learnt and passed out to 
valiant deeds. Into new centuries the Black Robe 
was permitted to gaze upon this realization of his 
last wish, and what he saw was pleasant. 

Then the light of those distant days faded, and 
the shadows of this early morning returned. To 


MUCH FRUIT 


113 


the Black Robe, pains and weariness were as 
things forgotten; contentment and great gratitude 
claimed him as their very own. 

Once more over the beeches of his friendly 
ravine he did repeat, as a parting benediction, the 
words, “—itself remaineth alone. But if it 

die-” With his last strength the Black Robe 

sang the ending of this verse as a paean of thanks¬ 
giving to Him who now approached. “But if it 
die, it bringeth forth much fruit! ’ ’ 



THE TRUE BLUE STAR 

S HE purchased the flag, returning from the sta¬ 
tion that sunny June evening, when she and 
the sky were of the same hue. Again in the home, 
where to every room clung his memory, she had 
carefully picked out the stitches that held the star. 
Afterward, adding a red and white Badge, she had 
sewed them back into place on the white field and 
smoothed out the bulge with a hot iron. With a 
sharp intake of breath that stirred the flag, she 
had herself hung it in the very center of the tiny 
parlor window, where its blue star bore witness to 
the passing street. Then, during the long after¬ 
noons, when some of her friends came sighing and 
consoling, she had silenced them with her in¬ 
variable anecdote. 

“I said to Sammie, the night war came, ‘Son, 
are you going to wait to be drafted V And he said 
to me, stooping over, ‘Mother, how can I? I en¬ 
listed this afternoon.’ And I said, ‘Sam, you only 
did your duty, and no harm will befall you, be¬ 
cause I’m placing you under a real Magic Coat. ’ ’ 9 
Somehow the consolers and the sighers ceased 
to trouble Mrs. Howard. 

Nevertheless, the day his last hasty line came 
from Mineola, gloating that his next letter would 

114 


THE TRUE BLUE STAR 


115 


come from “Over There Land,” she had turned 
the Statue on the mantlepiece till the kindly eyes 
must look directly at the blue star. And she had 
told her daughter Mary, very determinately, that 
hereafter she herself would fill and trim and keep 
alight the small lamp that cast its reddish glow up 
the robes of the Statue, up to the Sacred Heart. 

Then, through the letterless days, she knitted 
sleeveless jerseys that would only fit a certain 
broad chest, and while her fingers toiled tirelessly, 
her thoughts would stay out on the long blue curve 
that led to France. So she tried, while she knitted 
and prayed, to practise her dear father’s constant 
maxim, ‘ 1 Keep a stiff upper lip. ’’ And she always 
turned a smiling face to Mary; for young 
shoulders find the bearing of the burden hard. 

Well she remembered how her own mother had 
smiled through the tense fortnight after Gettys¬ 
burg, when her father’s name was on no list, and 
how her mother’s face suddenly aged, when the 
news came that he was unwounded and promoted. 
Now, with the seeming flip of a half century, she 
was the mother and Mary the daughter, and in¬ 
stead of father in blue, this time it was her own 
olive-drab son. 

Then, one rainy morning, when she was unable 
to go the three squares to 6.30 Mass at the Sacred 
Heart Church, came a brief, censor-stamped card 
from nowhere, saying “I have arrived safely over 
seas” and everything was “tres bien, ma mere .” 
She had laughed. It was so like Sam to air any 
new accomplishment. 

Later in the day, as Mary was leaving for the 
Red Cross, she stopped before the hallway mirror 


116 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


to adjust her hat, and through the half-open cur¬ 
tains caught her mother standing before the 
framed photograph that held the place of honor 
in the tiny parlor. Coming up softly behind her, 
she heard the murmured, 4 ‘ In Thee I trust. ’ ’ And 
she noticed the puckered, trembling lips. The 
thought struck Mary, as she rolled the white yards 
at the meeting, that an ounce of a mother’s pre¬ 
ventive prayers might outweigh a curative pound 
of these bandages. 

Then within the month, like a burst of shrapnel, 
came the telegram. Mary had answered the ring, 
certain it was a message announcing the time of 
Aunt Mamie’s train. She had lightly signed the 
boy’s book and had called out: 

“Stop your everlasting knitting, old dear, and 
hear the news. It’s from Auntie. You open it.” 

And her mother had pulled down her spectacles 
and cut the yellow edge with her scissors. 

“I suppose it’s the 10:02. You will have to go, 
as that’s my Red Cross hour.” 

Then her mother was smiling heavily and she 
got up and said: 

‘ 6 Daughter. ’ ’ 

Mary, startled, had followed the older woman 
into the silent parlor before the lighted Statue. 
And here her mother had said: 

“Kneel, dear.” 

She showed Mary the open face of the dispatch. 
It offered the Department’s sympathy and re¬ 
gretted to report to the next of kin: “Private 
Samuel Howard killed in action.” 

Somehow, Father Scully learned at once, (many 
of the telegraph girls were of the Sacred Heart 


THE TRUE BLUE STAR 


117 


Parish) and his mere presence was strength. But 
next day when The Sun blazed out the town’s first 
hero, privacy departed. School children lingered 
in the street, and strangely silent for them, were 
held fascinated by the blue star in the parlor 
window, which had taken on a new dignity. And 
taller folks could see somewhere back in the room, 
the reddish glow of a faithful lamp that burnt by 
day and by night. 

There was one young reporter who came with 
a request, and because he looked somewhat like 
Sam—the same clear blue eyes, and deep bronze 
cheek, and deep dimple in his chin—succeeded in 
persuading the mother to let her picture be taken. 
So she watched him with hungry eyes, while he 
nimbly draped a flag against the wall. Thus was 
she taken. This photo was copied even in the big 
dailies. Thousands in Atlantic and inland and 
coast cities looked on this cut of the small black 
satin figure, standing serenely against the striped 
and starred wall, and it caused many a mother to 
feel a tightening of her heart-strings. 

Yet to Mary, her mother seemed at times to 
act as though she were puzzled, even hurt. It 
was not the crushing silence of grief, the shock 
of sudden overwhelming disaster, but rather the 
startled stillness of a child, whose dearest trust 
has been betrayed. This troubled Mary. 

One afternoon Reverend Mother came over from 
the Convent with an enormous spiritual bouquet. 
Masses, Communions, beads, and a regiment of 
acts of mortification, that the Parochial School 
children had promised to offer for Sam. As the 
two talked of his school days and the all around 


i 


118 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


model he had been, a troubleless, toilsome, faith¬ 
ful, combination youthful genius and boy saint, 
Mary could not help recalling some of the more 
painful interviews she, as sister to Saint Genius, 
had had with Reverend Mother. But being a child 
of this generation, she sat silent, or contributed 
a rare bouquet. Finally Reverend Mother pro¬ 
duced a tissue-papered bundle, and said: 

‘ 6 Dear Mrs. Howard, I’ve spoken to Father 
Scully and he enthusiastically approves. This is 
a part of an old chasuble, and the Sisters were 
thinking that you would care to replace that blue 
star in the flag,” her hand swept toward the win¬ 
dow, ‘ 4 with this one. You have a right, you know.” 

She unwrapped a star of thick cloth of gold. 
Again Mary noticed, as her mother accepted, and 
thanked Reverend Mother, that hurt betrayal-of- 
trust look. 

When they were alone, Mary offered to ex¬ 
change the stars, but her mother stopped her, 
saying: 

4 ‘No, daughter; that’s my work, if it’s to be 
done.” 

So Mary went back to her desk in the dining 
room to acknowledge letters. 

Mrs. Howard got her basket—the old brown 
shellac work-box, out of which had come the thread 
and needles to patch and darn countless young 
clothes. The work-box shook as she recalled that 
such service would not be needed again. 

Then she gently took the Service Flag out of 
the window. Whitebearded Doctor MacFarland, 
passing in his machine, slowed to tip his hat to 
the mother, and she saw his car swerve as he 


THE TRUE BLUE STAR 119 

rolled along. Doctor had met Sam on his arrival 
twenty-two years ago. 

With the flag on her arm, the mother turned to 
the Statue, and almost before she knew it, she 
was saying: 

“Ah! In Thee I trusted!” 

But looking at the exposed Heart, she gently 
amended: 

“In Thee I trust.’’ 

And she went up to the back bedroom that had 
been his. 

Here, in the low morris chair, she sat, laying 
the brown work-box on the floor. 

She held up the small silk flag and the thought 
struck her for the first time, that the blue star 
on the white field were the colors of our Lady, 
and the red border, the sacred color of her Son. 
Surely, he should have had double protection! 
She remembered the time, just entering his teens, 
when Sam had gone so low with pneumonia, here 
in this very bed, and Father Scully had come with 
the Holy Oils; and how, as she expressed it, she 
had “emptied a street in Purgatory” with her 
prayers that he might not be taken. And well 
she recalled the evening of the First Friday, when 
the crisis had been successfully passed, and Sam 
slept. That night she had especially consecrated 
her only son. Her hand had reached the blue star, 
and as she fingered it, she suddenly remembered 
the reason of its thickness. She looked up at the 
blurred window, flooded with the dying gold, and 
said: 

“And when I put him specially under Your 
protection. It isn’t like You!” 


120 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


Then her eyes rested on the cloth of gold star 
that Mother Ambrose had just given her to re¬ 
place this blue one. And she wondered should 
she make the exchange. Wouldn’t it be a kind 
of lack of trust? She dropped the stars into her 
lap, where they lay side by side. The blue for 
the living, and the gold, the symbol of one who 
had given life that others might live. Long she 
mused. Later she picked up the flag and with her 
scissors began to cut the threads that held the 
blue star on the white field. 

As the points came up, there appeared under¬ 
neath, the red and white Badge she had placed 
there the day Sam had departed with his regiment 
to join the Rainbow Division. Gazing on that 
thorn-girded Heart aflame, she burst out: 

“This is the only time You have ever failed me. 
It’s hard to believe it!” 

And then loyally she stopped. She cut away 
slowly the threads that held, and this time her 
thoughts lingered consolingly on the immense 
Spiritual Bouquet, the children of the Parochial 
School had offered for her Sam, and it was balm 
to know how those many young prayers would 
expedite his passage through that other helpless 
No Man’s Land. 

Four blue points of the star were free, and she 
had started her scissors under the last point, when 
she heard the door-bell ring, and Mary move be¬ 
low to answer it. A boy’s shrill voice sounded, 
she did not recognize the voice, and the front door 
banged closed. It was intensely still in the hall¬ 
way. Then, suddenly, Mary began screaming. 


THE TRUE BLUE STAR 


121 


Mrs. Howard rose hastily, upsetting the work-box. 
She heard: 

“Mother! Mother, where are your* 

Mary came racing up the stairs. The next in¬ 
stant she flashed into the bedroom, a yellow tele¬ 
gram in her hand. 

u O mother! Sam—a cable mistake—he has 
been made a Sergeant!” 

Mrs. Howard crushed the blue star and the 
protecting Badge to her bosom, crying: 

“0 Heart! That I ever doubted You!” 



THIS NIGHT 


D ADDY, that’s the third time you’ve yawned, 
and you know it ain’t polite.” 

“Ain’t?” Judge Foole put down his legal 
magazine and twisted on the deep cushioned seat 
with mock seriousness. 

“Isn’t,” came in a chastened voice. And later, 
“I think you’re an awfully mean Daddy.” 

The Judge looked straight ahead through the 
heavy glass, beyond the uniformed shoulders of 
the chauffeur, to the black William Penn atop of 
City Hall, that loomed increasingly bigger as they 
rolled down Broad, but a penitent hand reached 
sideways and was clasped forgivingly by a smaller 
one. 

“Daddy’s been working hard lately, earning 
certain folk’s bread and butter, and he’s pretty 
tired, Gladie, but soon he’s going to take a long 
rest. He’s going to eat, and he’s going to drink, 
and he’s going to be—.” He never finished. 

The car swerved violently to the right, and 
bumped the curb; a whitefaced man on the side¬ 
walk glued himself into a doorway, and as Judge 
Foole grabbed his tiny daughter to his breast, he 
saw a heavy limousine back swiftly out of the 
parked line in the center of the street and strike 

122 


THIS NIGHT 


123 


a dingy jitney ahead. In a spray of flying par¬ 
ticles—glass windshields have that defect—the 
lighter jitney crumpled, then turned, and a shirt- 
waisted girl, who had been in the jitney, lay under 
the whir of the motor. 

Mercifully the Judge covered his daughter’s 
eyes, and held her down till Connor had backed 
the car into the street again and out of the ever- 
increasing crowd. He patted Gladys’ head, whis¬ 
pering assuring nothings, and would not let her 
up till his machine had swung into Spring Garden 
Street, and was passing the massive, granite-col¬ 
umned Mint. 

‘ 4 Daddy, my hair’s all mussed up, and you did 
it too! Why, Daddy, your face’s as white as 
anything! ’ ’ 

Judge Foole lay back on the cushions, hand 
pressed on heart, and spoke little till his car was 
in Arch Street and stopping before Gladys’ school. 

“ Daughter will have something to tell Madam 
Neiman, if late.” He pushed open the door, 
“Now, don’t keep Jack and myself waiting, when 
we come this afternoon. Circus in town you know, 
Gladie.” 

He kissed his daughter warmly and watched her 
disappear within the shelter of the gray stone 
Academy of the Sacred Heart, and then it was 
he let himself relax. 

“That still girl might have been my Gladie— 
or me. Close call, that!” 

But once in his high law office, that commanded 
a view down restless Market Street, the duties of 
the day came, and with them a forgetfulness of 
the warning of the morning. 


124 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


He went over the papers in the Leahan case 
and, except in one minor point—where he penciled 
his objection in the margin—approved his part¬ 
ner’s line of argument. The plump office boy 
knocked, and silently laid a batch of the morning 
mail at his elbow, and Judge Foole skillfully sorted 
the pile, flipping the ads and circulars unopened 
into the wastebasket. He stopped his examination 
and reached for the silver dagger of a paper cut¬ 
ter, as he came to a heavy envelope, with “U. S. 
Senate” engraved in blue upon it. With rapid, 
nervous jerks his eyes zigzagged down the type¬ 
written lines that pledged the senior Senator of 
Pennsylvania’s support in the coming municipal 
election. 

“Then it’s ‘My Honor, the Mayor,’ ” said the 
Judge to himself, for well he knew what the po¬ 
litical support of “Boss” White was equivalent 
to. The phone rang, and he was telling Fox— 
young Frank X. Fox, of Fox & Welsh, Real Estate 
—that he had decided to accept their client’s offer 
and take that ocean-front cottage in Chelsea. 
‘ ‘ $38,000 cash. Yes; that was the consideration, ’ ’ 
and the check was theirs as soon as the deed was 
made out. 

The Judge made a memorandum and filed it in 
the “Personal” pigeonhole of his littered desk. 

“I’ve wanted that site for years, and now it’s 
mine. This fall, after the election, I’ll pull down 
that old shack and put up the classiest cottage 
in Chelsea. Dirt cheap too! That property’s 
bound to appreciate; yea, double in value in three 
years. 

“As soon as Sea-edge Park is put through,” 


THIS NIGHT 


125 


he whispered to the small, plaster Billiken, that 
squatted upon a mass of bright colored time¬ 
tables. The Judge smiled and winked at the sol¬ 
emn Baby God of Luck, for he was in a position 
to know some future municipal plans that had 
been approved by the invisible government of 
Chelsea. 

Then Judge Foole stood his confidant on top 
of his desk and busied himself routing the rest 
trip to the Coast, Mother and Gladys and himself 
would make next month, and he was just spreading 
out a gaudy Frisco folder, that showed a summer 
girl under a tall palm gazing at the bluest of 
Pacifies, when his private office door burst open 
and the judge knew who was in the room. When 
he had disengaged the cyclone that circled his 
neck, he heard: 

“Daddy, I got the camp kit. It’s a beaut. Khaki 
trousers, six pairs; two gray Army blankets; 
a peach of a poncho, that won’t leak.—The man 
guaranteed it.—An’ some swell shirts, an’ two 
pairs of real moccasins, made by New York State 
Indians, and a canoe paddle—I bet it don’t break 
like that bum one I had last year—and, Daddy, 
will you look at this pippin!” and the breathless 
Jack produced a practical-looking, many-bladed 
knife. 

The Judge amusedly took the tool of destruction 
from his son’s hand and read the Scout motto, 
that was impressed on the bulky knife’s side. 

“ ‘Be prepared,’ hey, Jack. That’s good advice 
for anyone. But,” knowing the ways of his Jack, 
he added seriously, “boy, let me catch any blade 
of this—this Devil’s Advocate, open at home and 


126 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


it’s no Camp Columbus’ will see you this sum¬ 
mer.” 

He gazed again at the bone-handled instrument, 
that lay at peace in his palm. “So, Jack, my son, 
keep it under cover till you cross the Delaware, 
or ‘Be prepared’ for an all summer job in my 
outer office.” 

“All right, Dad.” Jack pocketed his treasure, 
and importantly reached into his hip pocket. 
“But, Daddy, I didn’t show you the best of all 
yet,” and he brought forth a shiny blue-black 
Iver Johnson automatic. 

Jack’s eyes were shining with new ownership. 

‘ ‘ Oh, boy! Ain’t that some class! ‘ Be prepared, ’ 
hey,” and he went to hand it to his father for his 
inspection. 

There was a crash. The head of the squat Billi- 
ken flew off, dropped down on the desk, rolled, and 
dropped to the floor, and the Judge, who had felt 
the leaden Death sweep by his cheek, coughed as 
the whitish smoke sailed up. 

Then he caught his little Jack, as the boy, weak 
with fright, toppled and sobbed on his shoulder. 

“ Oh! My Daddy! My Daddy! ’ ’ 

“There. There, sonny, I know! It didn’t hap¬ 
pen, so not a word now! But let that be an indel¬ 
ible lesson for Jack.” He disengaged the auto¬ 
matic from the hot little fist and slipped it into a 
drawer, as the startled head clerk and the open- 
mouthed office boy flung open the ‘Private’ door. 

“Nothing, Russell; nothing serious. Jack has 
just had a fainting spell that I think he ’ll remem¬ 
ber for at least a month.” 


THIS NIGHT 


127 


“Two years, Daddy/’ wailed a woe-begone voice 
close to the Judge’s ear. 

“You might open that window, Russell and—” 
to the other, “Carroll, if you’ll close that door and 
your lips firmly, I’ll see that Mr. Russell gives you 
a circus ticket for this evening’s show. Under¬ 
stand?” 

The door closed firmly and swiftly. 

“Russell,” Judge Foole searched his unan¬ 
swered mail till he found the desired envelope, 
“see that Carroll, if he shows, e-er,” he was 
searching for a word, “discretion, gets this before 
he goes home this night.” 

“Yes, Judge,” said Mr. Russell. 

“Now, my son, the incident is closed. Not a 
word to frighten Mother or Gladie. But be more 
careful, and don’t subject your old daddy to the 
pleasures of the trenches another time. 

“Yes; I’ll commandeer the automatic till you 
start for the Maryland camp, Jack.” 

The Judge looked kindly at the sorrowful figure. 
“Tell you what you do, son.” He drew out his 
watch. “There’s plenty of time. Go to Devine’s 
and have a good swim. I’d love to go along my¬ 
self, but I have a luncheon date in twenty minutes 
with an old chum.” 

Then half maliciously. “I think, Jack, I’ll try 
and persuade Father Davis to come along as chap¬ 
lain this afternoon, in case of another attempted 
assassination. So meet us in front of the Law¬ 
yers’ Club—Connor will have the machine there at 
one—and we ’ll pick up Gladie and see 4 The Great¬ 
est Show on Earth.’ Now, good-bye.” 

Jack proved that he was bankrupt. 


128 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


‘ 4 Here’s enough for the swim and a respectable 
lunch.” The Judge cut off thanks and further 
protestations. 44 There! There! I know it was 
an accident. Take one deep dive for Daddy, ’ ’ and 
a very subdued Jack, still trembling at what might 
have been, left the office. 

44 If I was superstitious, I’d say I’d had two 
warnings this morning. Poor kid! Jack was 
scared blue. That won’t hurt him.” And Judge 
Foole threw the headless Billiken into the waste 
basket. 

As the Judge entered the club, a tall priest with 
curly black hair, who had been reading his Brev¬ 
iary by a window overlooking the street, closed 
the book and rose. 

44 Father Jimmie! This is a pleasure, and it’s 
all mine.” 

44 No; fifty-fifty,” laughed Father Davis, return¬ 
ing the vigorous handshake; 44 I got here only a 
few minutes ahead of you. Glad I wasn’t late.” 

They passed by the fairly silent reading room, 
the Judge nodding to several; the smoke-laden bil¬ 
liard room, noisy with chaffing and the constant 
click, click of ivory striking ivory. At the door 
of the dining room an obsequious head waiter, 
hot-looking in his evening clothes, cried: 44 This 
way, Judge,” and in a little eddy of an alcove 
switched on the fan and took their Panamas. 

They talked, as they lunched, of the old George¬ 
town days, and the fifteen years since their last 
meeting. Finally the Judge, as he held a match 
for the priest’s cigar, said: 

44 So ‘Peanut’ Collins and his bride went with 
the ‘Lusitania!’ Poor old ‘Peanut!’ ’Member 


THIS NIGHT 


129 


how he used to boast that a shrimp like himself 
would bury Gibraltar, Father Jimmie ?” 

“Ah! Jakko,” the Judge blushed at the resur¬ 
rection of the almost forgotten nickname. “Gibral¬ 
tar will see us all low; even your granite self. ’ ’ 

“Indeed, Father Jim, twice I came near glad¬ 
dening an undertaker’s heart this very morning,” 
and Judge Foole told the attentive face across the 
table of the jitney and the automatic. 

“Ah! Judge, those things do make us think. 
That’s a good workable motto for all of us, those 
Boy Scouts have. That, and the one you read at 
the country railway crossing.” 

Judge Foole pulled on his cigar in silence; 
short, thick cloudlets of smoke rolled up and 
whirled away, as the fan’s air current caught 
them. The Judge was following the thoughts the 
turn in the conversation had cast up. 

Father Davis did not interrupt. The absent 
years had brought him sad rumors of Judge 
Foole’s rise to money and power and of that 
all too common trailer of success, neglect of the 
one thing really necessary; and his priestly expe¬ 
rience told him that his friend, the harum-scarum 
“ Jakko” of the old decades, had come across one 
of those precious moments, rifts in the clouds. 

“Jakko,” said Father Davis, with the bluntness 
of an old intimate, “how many years is it since 
you went to Confession?” 

The Judge started, and unthinkingly answered: 
“At least ten, Father.” 

“Then with all your prosperity you must be 
miserable. Poor Jakko! Here you’ve been tell¬ 
ing me of your highly uncertain heart, and your 


130 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


California trip, and yonr new Chelsea home, and 
your political ambitions, and what not pleasure 
plans for the future; and where would they have 
been, if that jitney had been your car, or that bul¬ 
let had swerved a wee inch? Judge, you’re dab¬ 
bling in futures. Is it worth it?” 

There was a silence, broken only by the whir of 
the nearby fan, as it swayed from side to side. 
Father Davis saw his opportunity and grasped it. 

“Jakko,” he spoke affectionately, “Jakko, old 
fellow, have you forgotten the parable of your 
namesake? He was a careless fool, and he 
planned a barn and a home and, God knows what 
else for the far-stretching future, and Our Lord 
said: ‘This night,’ and-” 

Judge Foole held up his hand. “Put down the 
gun, Father Jimmie. I know all you say is true, 
gospel true, and some day I’ll ‘hit the trail’ to 
that ‘refugium peccatorum,’ Old St. Joseph’s and 
get whitewashed, but not now.” 

The priest saw another grace was being re¬ 
pulsed. 

“You have to-day,” he said quietly. “To¬ 
morrow,” Father Davis shrugged his shoulders, 

‘ ‘ nay, this night you haven’t. What about ‘ Safety 
First,’ Judge?” 

“Jim, Your Reverence, logically you can’t be 
answered; ‘it can’t be did,’ as my Jack persists 
in saying. Some day I’ll do it. I know I’ll sleep 
easier that night than I have in ten years, and,” 
the Judge pushed back his chair and initialed the 
slip the waiter had left by his side, “then I’ll 
write you all about it. You always were too seri¬ 
ous, Father Jimmie. ’Member the time old ‘Tri- 



THIS NIGHT 


131 


angle Tim’ thought he caught you dead to rights 
smoking in the Physics Room and ‘ jugged ’ you 
for a week! And I was the culprit.’’ 

Both laughed, but the Judge’s laugh was the 
heartier. 

Jack, with a well-fed look and wet, slicked-down 
hair, met the two as they emerged from the 
Lawyers’ Club. 

“So this is the next generation 1 ?” said Father 
Davis, taking the boy’s hand as they settled back 
in the big enclosed car. “Jack, did any one ever 
tell you, you look the dead spit of a carefree boy 
who lived in Conshohocken, twenty-five, no, thirty 
years ago!” 

“No, Father; but that’s where Daddy lived 
when he was a boy.” 

“Can you guess who the boy was, then!” 

“Daddy!” As a light broke, “Why, sure, it 
was Daddy.” 

“Right, and I could many a tale unfold of that 
long-ago lad.” 

Now Judge Foole thought it wise to point out 
the proposed beauties of the new boulevard, as yet 
the dusty, wind-swept possession of contractors’ 
wagons and shoveling Italians. 

They picked up and introduced a wildly excited 
Gladys, and then speeded up Broad to the circus 
grounds. 

Here the fascination of the never old, always 
young circus world rolled up and enfolded them. 
The Judge, with Glady’s hand 6 checked’ in his, 
and Father Davis doing a like service for Jack’s, 
ran the gauntlet of the ball games, the cane racks, 
the noisy, smoky shooting galleries; passed the 


132 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


throne of the hoarse-voiced, convict-looking 
4 Wienie’ king, where Jack paid tribute of a nickel 
and came into possession of an atrocious ‘hot dog’ 
sandwich. Having their tickets, they did not join 
the pushing swarm that stormed the White Wagon 
or the Red, but they did tarry slightly before the 
Side Show, listening to the rude eloquence of the 
flashily-dressed spielers, and viewing the line of 
impossible banners, whereon were painted, in 
rainbow hues, great snakes of prehistoric days, 
twined generously around jeweled snake charm¬ 
ers ; and uncomfortably stout ladies, who, despite 
their surplus of pounds, persisted in smiling 
stonily down. 

Twice, pushing and being pushed, they made the 
circuit of the menagerie, stopping till curiosity 
was killed, before each gaudy animal wagon; and 
Gladys, after the fourth bag of peanuts had been 
offered and accepted, had to be forcibly withdrawn 
from the upturned trunk of her favorite elephant. 

“Oh, Daddy, isn’t he perfectly dear! An’ look, 
he’s hungry; he wants more peanuts.” 

But Daddy was heartless, and hurried his party 
into the “Big Top” to the choice center seats 
under “F.” And none too soon, for the Grand 
Entrance—white horses and fair spangled ladies; 
enormous, wabbly elephants, hidden under bril¬ 
liant blankets; and Eastern attendants with un¬ 
mistakably Irish faces, mounted and walking, line 
after line—swept in and around the saw-dust, to 
the incessant clang of brass and iron. 

The show was on, and an hour later Father 
Davis looked at the two small, thoroughly happy 
figures that twitched with delight between himself 



THIS NIGHT 


133 


and their father. He caught Judge Foole’s eyes 
glistening with huge enjoyment, and laughed. 

“Same old show, Judge,” and boyishly, “I’m 
glad I accepted and came.” 

“Yes; and same old thrills as when—” he 
nodded to the children. 

“Daddy,” Jack shook his father’s knee, “will 
you look at that crazy, fool clown! They’re going 
to pull him up in that fake airship. There he goes 
now! Look! Look! Oh, look, Daddy!” 

The Judge turned away from a pole-balancing 
act in the furthest ring and saw the basket-aero¬ 
plane with its white painted 4 4 aeronaut ’ ’ sway and 
rise toward the center pole, as a straining gang 
of khaki-clad 4 4 roughnecks ’ ’ pulled on the rope. 

Thirty feet the clown rose, smirking and making 
believe to steer his machine high over the troupe 
of Japanese tumblers on the platform. Then, as 
the thousands laughed, drowning the shrill strains 
of the band, something gave way and the property 
aeroplane, like unto some of its real brothers, shot 
to earth, a splintered wreck. 

The white clown-suited figure lay as it struck, 
and Judge Foole, with the tail of his eye, saw 
Father Davis’ hand rise and cross and fall. 

Clowns and 4 4 roughnecks ” quickly carried the 
limp bundle across the center ring and through the 
show entrance, while the kaleidoscope perform¬ 
ance in ring and track and air went serenely on. 

But in a few minutes a burly usher stopped in 
front of section “F” and scanned the massed 
rows. Finding the Roman collar he sought, he 
climbed the aisle and whispered to Father Davis. 

44 Certainly,” said the priest, and telling the 


134 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


Judge and the curious children to wait, followed 
the circus man. 

When the chariot races were over and the plum- 
coated ticket sellers were urging the crowd that 
choked the exits to stop and see the Wild West 
performance, the Judge and the children made out 
Father Davis, looking grave, shouldering his way 
to them. 

“Poor fellow! He called for a priest and that 
usher accidentally remembered seating me in ‘ F.’ 
But he was gone when they brought me into the 
dressing tent. 

“That girl with the Posing Ponies—not the thin 
one with the picture hat, but the young one in 
gold and white—is his widow. ’’ 

They merged into the out-pouring crowd, and 
very quietly—even Jack and Gladys sat talkless— 
the machine carried all to the North Philadelphia 
Station. 

Father Davis was whispering some secret to 
Jack and the boy nodded gladly. “Good-bye, 
now.” He continued aloud, “I may see you at 
the camp. And, Jack, don’t forget. Tell Gladys 
what I said.” 

Leaving the children in the limousine, studying 
the “Bulletin” and “Ledger,” the Judge and 
priest walked the platform. 

“Poor foolish clown! I didn’t tell you in front 
of your kids, Judge, all they told me while I stood 
by his body.” The New York Express rumbled 
in the distance. “It must have come as the thief 
in the night to that careless chap. ‘Be Prepared’ 
is the only safe and sane motto. 

“Ah! Jakko,” a great wave of pity for this 




THIS NIGHT 


135 


neglectful chum swept the priest’s breast, “my 
Mass in the morning is going to be for you, that 
you may read the handwriting. It’s been written 
large on the wall for you this day. I’ll tell you 
the weak link in your case. With all your well- 
known careful judicial temperament, there’s just 
one, big, shining thing you overlook. You, like 
the fool of old, are banking on a distant return; 
priest at your bedside, Last Sacraments, and 
that.” Father Davis spoke slowly and earnestly, 
“But suppose you die suddenly, where go your 
calculations? 

“Ah! Jakko, don’t promise yourself days. 
[You’re not certain even of this night.” 

The roar of the cars drowned further words, 
and Father Davis was aboard. 

“Daddy, the ‘Phillies’ won, and the ‘A’s’ had 
a two-run lead in the seventh.” Jack was jubi¬ 
lant. 

“An’, Daddy, it’s got all about that jitney ac¬ 
cident this morning, and it says the chauffeur is 
going to be held for, for—” Gladys sought the 
account for the big word, “manslaughter. See it, 
Daddy?” 

They glided out of the station driveway, and 
passing their home on Broad Street, the Judge 
called: 

“Hello, what’s Connor up to?” 

“Oh, Daddy, we’re going to Confession. Father 
Davis wanted Gladie and me to receive to-morrow 
for a very special, important intention of his. 
And we want to remember that poor clown man 
too. We told Connor.” 

“Who owns this car, anyway?” said the Judge, 


136 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


good-humoredly, and a few minutes later they 
were bumping along Stiles Street, honking to 
heedless children, and drew up before the im¬ 
mense red and white Gesu, that towered, a giant, 
above the neighborhood. 

“Won't hurt you to go too, Daddy." Gladys 
gasped at the unmeditated words and covered her 
mouth. 

“Do, Daddy," added Jack, “an' we'll all re¬ 
ceive for Father Davis' intention. He said it's 
something for you, Daddy." 

The Judge half rose from his seat, then settled 
back. 

“Not to-night, my dears. Some other time. 
Run along now and don't keep me too long from 
my supper." 

The children were gone. 

Gladie's “Won't hurt you to go too, Daddy" 
echoed in the Judge's ear, and he threw down 
the paper. Why not go now? Chance—or was it 
chance?—had warned him thrice this day, and 
now it had directed him to the very doors of the 
church. 

The Judge sat back with half-closed lids. So 
that shirtwaisted girl had been killed.—Jack's 
joyous “Be Prepared, hey" and the thin smoke 
curling up from the automatic.—Father Jimmie's 
earnest gesture as he said: “You're not certain 
even of this night."—The careless smile on the 
white-painted face the second before the rope 
parted.—And again Gladie's blurted words. 

“Mere coincidences. Some day," said the 
Judge, and his gaze dropped to the timepiece, set 



THIS NIGHT 


137 


in the partition. “Good Heavens! What’s keep¬ 
ing those children?” 

He snatched his Panama and stepped into the 
vast dimness of the Gesu. He walked up the side 
aisle, by the few penitents kneeling, awaiting 
their turn at the confessionals. At a side chapel, 
half way up, he hesitated, peering around for the 
two familiar little figures, and as he did, a white- 
haired priest, erect and handsome, stepped out of 
a nearby confessional. Mistaking the Judge for 
a last penitent, the father stopped and made as 
though he would go back, but Judge Foole, seeing 
the priest’s mistake, shook his head and walked 
rapidly toward the altar. He had recognized his 
two, kneeling at the railing. 

“Come,” he said, and touched them. They 
passed out into the evening. 

“I feel so bathed and clean, Daddy. But hun¬ 
gry! Hot Doggie! Won’t I kill supper!” Jack 
patted his stomach. 

They swung out of Broad Street into their 
private driveway, and the car stopped under the 
stone archway. Jack and Gladie dashed out and 
raced up the great gray steps to Mother, who, 
gowned for dinner, appeared smiling in the door¬ 
way. 

Breathless they told her of the circus and the 
clown; each tugging at her, claiming her undi¬ 
vided attention. 

“Oh, Mama, he dropped and he was dead ’fore 
Father Davis could-” 

“Kiddies, why doesn’t father come?” Mrs. 
Foole saw her husband still sitting in the ma- 



138 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


chine, and then she noticed Connor, who had 
turned, was leaping out of the front of the car. 

Instinctively she felt something was wrong and 
gathering her flimsy skirts in one hand, she 
parted the children and ran down the steps. 

He sat deep in the cushions, his face working 
horribly and one hand trying vainly to clutch his 
heart. As she reached him, Judge Foole pitched 
forward to his Judgment. 


AS THE CLOCK STRIKES 

0 STREET crosses 36tli just before it buries 
itself, like a river into the ocean, in the 
wide grounds that surround the gray-towered 
buildings of Georgetown University. This inter¬ 
section is a quiet corner. There is something of 
eternity’s peace in its very atmosphere. Its un¬ 
troubled existence is broken only at the hours 
when sturdy legs and dainty feet hurry to and 
from the white-faced schools that flank old 
Trinity Church. Then, save for an occasional 
trolley and rare traffic, a sauntering group of 
Georgetown boys, and the evening play of chil¬ 
dren, it remains the quiet corner, becoming to the 
neighborhood of an ancient seat of learning. 

Yet over its academic calm, with grim unrelent¬ 
ing determination, the great clock in the tallest 
tower of Georgetown University forever pro¬ 
claims the passing of the hours. Day and night, 
month and year, from the high gray tower, each 
quarter of the hour is broadcasted over the col¬ 
legiate vicinity. Summer and winter, the unal¬ 
terable record of Time’s relentless march toward 
eternity is sounded on unheeding ears. 

It is a raw morning in the white months of the 
year now. Christmas and its Crib have gone: 

139 


140 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


snow is falling. Blue and pearly clouds, herald¬ 
ing yet more snow, ride low over the frozen Po¬ 
tomac and white Georgetown Heights. Ice like 
steel coats the car tracks on 36th Street. Few 
are abroad. The majority of the muffled-up 
school children have disappeared within the wel¬ 
come doors—for the air is biting and the class¬ 
rooms cozy. Laggards quicken their steps. 
Shortly, the clock in the gray tower of George¬ 
town will strike nine o’clock and lateness means 
extra school work. There will be good skating 
at The Playgrounds this afternoon. 

A lad, apple-cheeked, slim, and booted, his tol¬ 
erated schoolbooks under one arm, appears at 
the quiet corner. He looks like a clear morning 
in Spring. 

Down the air comes the first of the strokes that 
announce the beginning of a new hour: another 
school day. 

The lad hears a ‘‘Georgetown” car swing 
around the corner of P Street, by the snow- 
topped wall of the Visitation Convent, and, ap¬ 
provingly, he halts at the quiet corner to watch 
the sparks of Roman candles radiate from her 
trucks. 

Unheeded, from the gray tower comes the sec¬ 
ond stroke. 

The lad looks along 0 Street and he recognizes 
his mother, her familiar green coat tightly 
wrapped about her, coming toward him. 

Another stroke records the hour and, uncon¬ 
sciously, the lad slips another caramel into his 
mouth and resumes his progress toward the 
Boys’ School, half a square away. 


AS THE CLOCK STRIKES 


141 


His quick eyes see the old priest, whose Mass 
he had served two hours before, stand framed on 
the porch of Trinity Church. The priest pre¬ 
pares to descend the slippery steps and the lad 
notes the extreme care Age takes lest it fall. 

For the fourth time, the invisible clock strikes 
and its sound awakens a troubling thought in the 
lad’s mind. He quickens his pace, running on the 
far side of the street. In front of Trinity he 
starts to cut diagonally across the car tracks. 
His hand instinctively goes to his cap in rever¬ 
ence to The Master within His Home. 

The lad hears, alarmingly close, a clanging in 
his ears. And he slips. 

Again, a stroke of the clock is proclaiming over 
Georgetown that a new hour has come. 

For the lad, the gray day, the fresh smell of 
new falling snow, the taste of caramel, the white 
fires of sudden agony, and the grinding of hasty 
brakes, all cease. 

The five gates through which the lad sensed 
Georgetown and the familiar things of his world 
swing closed swiftly—shriekingly—forever. 

Forever is the soul of the lad looking on light, 
brighter than the light of many noonday suns. 
He has come out of the narrow River of Life and 
he lives in a ocean of light, warm loving light. 
And One is there, the Center from which this 
light radiates infinitely. This One, the soul of 
the lad instinctively adores. For he recognizes 
the Countenance of God, his Judge. And as he 
falls forward there arises before him, babyhood, 
with its pleasant dreams and the constantly hov¬ 
ering face of his mother: the toddling days, when 


142 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


chairs and table tops seemed lofty: all the for¬ 
gotten years when he was a youngster; every 
game in the street, every lesson in the Grades, 
the coming of a chance heard word and his in¬ 
nocent repetition of it. There arises again the 
happy peace of the First Confession afternoon 
and the gladness of that morrow, when this One, 
now judging, came in all His Hidden Loveliness 
to the small welcoming heart. The incomplete 
boyhood and its venial mishaps pass like an inex¬ 
orable parade. Inexorably, each omission, each 
hasty commission, each repentence, each whis¬ 
pered prayer of hope and faith, of sorrow and of 
love, come and are gone. The Communion of the 
morning Mass that was Viaticum is seen again 
and this time with the veil of bread withdrawn. 
Swiftly unrolls Time’s record of this young com¬ 
pleted life; its few budding years and their clean¬ 
liness. 

Then the soul of the lad hears for the first time 
the Wondrous Voice and Its words are welcome 
and praise. “Come, you who have kept your 
heart sweet. Come, dearest.” And a Scarred 
Hand enfolds on a Sacred Breast a new child of 
the Church Triumphant. 

The Judgment is over forever. Few the years 
of trial, few the sorrows, few the joys, yet this 
lad has won into the white company that follow- 
eth the Lamb whithersoever He goeth: into the 
white choir that sing their unique song. 

The lad is before the Lady All Fair, whose robes 
are blue and star-scattered: whose countenance 
is calm as Her Son’s: whose radiance lights all 
Heaven: and, yet, whose welcome is the tender 


AS THE CLOCK STRIKES 


143 


welcome of a Mother, whose little son has been 
away in places dangerous and is now at length 
come safely home. 

She says: “See, dearest, many wait to wel¬ 
come you.” 

Then the horizon of Heaven broadens before 
the lad and he sees an ocean of souls attend the 
Lady All Fair and the lad knows them at once. 
These children of the Kingdom, who had been 
men and women, boys and girls, in that distant 
world of probation. Choirs and hosts and legions 
and glittering-robed armies, like wheat in a 
mighty field; seas of angels, winged myriads of 
Cherubim and Seraphim, a vast Milky Way on a 
still August night, beyond calculation, innumer¬ 
able, spreads out and out, ever out, before the en¬ 
raptured soul of the lad. 

Yet he knows them and he knows their intimate 
stories. Old kings and shepherd boys, who had 
lingered in Limbo, slaves who once toiled along 
the Nile, and free men of Greece, prophets of 
Judea, and children who reddened the sands of 
the Colosseum; young nuns, whose cloistered 
days had been holily passed in vaulted monas¬ 
teries of Gaul, of Merrie England, and of Old 
Castile. Souls, who had been Christ’s valiant 
Vicars and “the Thieves of Paradise,” who flew 
Home with the Baptismal drops still damp upon 
their brows. Souls of the lad’s own century, who 
had won to their places among these bright tril¬ 
lions, from Japan and Ireland and Chile, from 
torrid India, from the islands of the south, from 
his own broad-bosomed America. 

Each the lad knows in that first glad glance and 


144 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


each of these knows him intimately, joyously, 
brotherly. 

The lad, as the sight becomes almost oppres¬ 
sively happy, turns to the bright spirit who radi¬ 
ates at his side and cries: 

“Oh! Guardian, what are the centuries that I 
have been here %’ * 

“We have no bonds of years, dearest. Time 
and its decades are for the toiling mortals.’’ 

The Guardian suggests: “Behold the centuries 
of your sojourn, 0 dearest.” 

And the soul of the lad is looking again on the 
white-pillared portico of Trinity Church. A 
trolley is just stopping under the clamp of emer¬ 
gency brakes. The old priest has halted on the 
icy steps and his hand is hastily rising to give 
Absolution. 

Beneath the trolley; caught, entangled, cruelly 
crushed, is a darkening form, warm and very 
still . . . 

At the quiet corner is the green-coated figure 
of a woman about to cross the tracks, all uncon¬ 
scious of the halted trolley half a square away 
and the sorrow so soon to rush upon her. 

Over the roofs of the red-faced homes across 
from old Trinity comes the sound of the clock in 
the gray tower of Georgetown University, still 
striking the morning hour. 

“Why, why it’s only nine o’clock!” exclaims 
the lad unbelievingly. 

“And it always will be, dearest,” promises the 
Guardian. 


THE SIN OF SIMON GOLD 

T HERE are some men who die hardened, and 
the effects of their sin are buried with them, 
and there are others whom His mercy finally 
softens. These come, leaving behind the circle of 
their sin to widen and widen, till it washes on the 
shores of Eternity. I, Simon Gold, am one of 
these others. 

Back in the forgotten Thirties I was called, and 
with the very summons ringing in my ears, there 
came up before me the picture of a boy in old 
France, a fresh-faced boy, attractive in all the 
grace of a First Communion Day, who was kneel¬ 
ing by the bed of his mother, and she was saying 
so anxiously: 

‘‘Simon, my wilful one, when I am gone I fear 
you will stray far, but remember, come back to 
Him.” 

And now I lay, a withered, little old man, on 
the point of embarking. “Come back to Him” 
like a voice across an abyss called, and I was 
sorry with a great sorrow. And viewing with 
sudden light what I had done, I gasped: 

“My will! I don't mean it. I change-” 

But they that stood by my high-posted bed 
murmured: 


145 



146 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


“He wanders.” 

Then my eyes were touched, and I stood blink¬ 
ing before Him, and my eighty and more years, 
each day and each deed, were passing in judg¬ 
ment. 

I lived before my eyes, seeing again the boy 
in the blue blouse and the blue-heavened years, 
when God was near; then the coming of deliber¬ 
ate sin, repeated till I sickened at the sight, when 
I, a merchant, sought profits as pleasure, when 
my ships, that sailed the known seas, were my 
soul, and monies poured into my countinghouse 
from the far quarters of the earth and my fellow- 
citizens quoted as a proverb the luck of Simon 
Gold. 

Then, like the spreading of a cancer, the ambi¬ 
tion of my last years to perpetuate my name and 
my indifference to God in a great college, where 
orphans would be reared, knowing Him not; the 
many plans I evolved, and the malicious drawing 
up of my steel-ribbed will. 

All these deeds of the years, like stones in an 
evil structure, piled their hideousness before me 
and I saw them, for the first time, as they stood 
awful in their true light; failures of days that 
men called successful. 

Then I heard my sentence: 

6 i Simon, your punishment shall be to tarry be¬ 
yond My Presence and see your will accom¬ 
plished. Go, Simon!” 

Quickly I became one of that forgotten army, 
whom few think to pray for. Time crept by on 
broken limbs, minutes as centuries. I had always 
before me the memory of my forgiven sin and 


THE SIN OF SIMON GOLD 


147 


there was the longing in every fibre of my being 
to be readmitted to His Presence. That I craved 
as the parched crave water. And yet I knew I 
could not satisfy my thirst till I had seen, as He 
had decreed, the accomplishment of my evil will. 

Forgotten, remorseful, patient, loving, I waited 
my day, and when I had been here eighty-one 
years, the span of my wasted days, I was directed 
to return and see some of the ruin I had wrought. 

It was the twentieth of May, the day I used to 
call my birthday, that I was sent back to my city 
and the sight of my sin. 

There before me, circling the many-acred 
grounds, was the brown stone wall that stood sul¬ 
len and solid, warning God away from Gold 
College. 

Unnoticed, save by the pitying Angels, I passed 
the lodge and received my first view of the sad 
work of my wealth. Beyond the well-kept lawn 
and its bed of swaying flowers was a magnificent 
pile of white marble. It smiled in the morning 
light. Broad steps led up to and supported the 
Corinthian columns of what was a fitting emblem 
of my sin—a pagan temple. 

In this godless house, the main building of Si¬ 
mon Gold College, were the ashes of my body. I 
glanced at my stately tomb, and then turned to 
view the group of substantial marble buildings, 
that, buried in trees, flanked this pagan temple. 
Beautiful to the sight were these homes of my 
wards, as the sun streamed on their vine-green 
sides. 

But they were merely the handsome shells of 
my sin. I was soon to sound its depth. I left the 


148 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


pagan temple behind, passing a bronze Soldiers ’ 
and Sailors’ Monument, and wandered down the 
shaded avenue to the dawn-gray buildings. Each 
I entered in turn, and I saw my wards at their 
lessons. Through classroom after classroom full 
of silently busy boys I went, looking in vain for 
the crucifix that had hung before my schoolboy 
eyes. But I remembered my hand had banished 
this inspiration. And I, a Catholic, was the 
Founder of this! Ah! I had only seen a corner 
of my sin. 

By the far-stretching playgrounds I wandered. 
It was recess time now and little figures in khaki 
and white screamed and raced in every direction, 
and the faces of those that rushed near I scanned, 
but on the countenances of nearly all was written 
the ignorance of God. Then my heart flamed 
against those who, dazzled by the glitter of a 
material education, had signed away their boys. 
But shame quickly cooled my indignation, shame 
backed by the remembrance of my bequeathed 
millions. 

I turned away from the playgrounds of the 
Gold boys and entered the Mechanical School. 
Here again, busy sections eagerly worked by 
shaving-heaped carpenter bench or glowing 
forge. Again I searched the faces about me, and 
again I saw they belonged to those who were 
learning but the knowledge of the passing world. 

I left the shops and skirted the playgrounds, 
noticing them not. My thoughts were heavy with 
the burden of what a splendid ruin I had 
achieved, and there came before me, like the re¬ 
turn of an evil bird, the boast I had often made in 


THE SIN OF SIMON GOLD 


149 


life, “When I am dead my actions mnst speak for 
me. *’ 

But a sharper edge of my sin was to cut me. 
To my left rose a pleasant-faced building, and I 
was drawn to enter. 

A boy on a crutch crossed the corridor and 
hobbled into a sun-swept ward. Here in the twin, 
white rows of beds I saw the pale, patient, white- 
clad lads, who lay quiet, or now and then turned 
big eyes to the group of convalescents, busy with 
trifles by the warm windows. 

Through this ward and yet others I wandered, 
and everywhere I noted the minute care the body 
in need received. 

Beyond the last ward I came to an open door. 
A hush hung over the room. A keen-eyed doctor 
and an alert nurse were watching the troubled 
little figure that tossed in the bed. I saw the 
doctor turn to his fellow-watcher and shrug his 
shoulders, as he put his hand flat on the hot fore¬ 
head. 

The troubled figure moved and opened his eyes 
in expectation. 

‘ ‘ Father! ’ ’ he said, and he spoke with such evi¬ 
dent relief, “oh, I’m so glad you came!” 

Then, seeing to whom he was talking, a trapped 
look came into the face and he explained disap¬ 
pointedly : 

“Please, sir, I thought you were the priest. 
Ain’t he ever going to come, Doctor, ain’t he!” 
and the boy’s hand glued the strong fingers of 
the man. 

“There, there, Pat! Don’t be foolish! You 


150 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


know priests are forbidden Gold College. Sleep 
now. ’’ 

The doctor worked to release his hand and was 
gone. 

The trapped look deepened and then gave way 
to a more horrible one. 

“I want to see a priest, a priest!” The cry 
arose and would not down. “A priest! I must 
tell him.” 

The nurse closed the door hastily. 

“Ah! Let him come just once, will you?” 

Again and again that vain appeal seared me, 
and riveted to the scene, I watched the last sands 
of this young life drain violently out. At length, 
with a cry that I’ll hear while God is God, he was 
silent. 

Not till then could I leave that awfully still 
room, and as I passed out into the checkered 
shade of the beautiful avenue, flanked with its 
massive gray buildings, I saw many people had 
assembled within the college grounds. 

A Gothic chapel, a mockery at my college, stood 
across the drive, and once more my punishment 
made me enter and hear. 

There before me in endless half circles was an 
audience, and they listened approvingly while on 
the platform a fluent speaker, himself an old Gold 
boy, was eulogizing the Founder. 

He was saying how on this Founder’s Day, 
they were assembled to applaud the splendid 
work Gold College was doing—I thought of the 
troubled figure—and he told, as something gratu- 
latory, how every bequested dollar had multiplied 
itself by five, till now my few millions had become 




THE SIN OF SIMON GOLD 


151 


many and the work of Simon Gold would spread 
with the coming years. 

Ah, the pain of that moment in which was borne 
to me the full realization that what he said was 
true, and I was helpless to thwart it! I, who had 
ceased to he the master of my actions! For in 
the days of my deliberate choosing I had cast the 
stone, and the ripples of my causing, ever widen¬ 
ing, would roll out and out. 

My vision was filled with the troubled figures— 
He, who is Knowledge, alone knows how many! 
—that I had robbed, and would rob, of their heri¬ 
tage. 

I fled the chapel and the cruel words of praise 
and honor that stung me like avenging rods. I 
had seen my cancer of a college, my sin in all its 
fair rankness, and I cried out in my agony: 

“God! My offended God! Send me back and 
plunge me into the keenest flame, there to stay 
till You come again, but don’t, don’t let this, my 
evil doing, go on!” 


DISTINGUISHED ANCESTRY 


T HE Brooklyn home of the Morgans—Admiral 
Manly K. Morgan, U. S. N. (retired), and 
his family—faced Prospect Park Plaza. From 
the dining-room windows the snow-burdened 
trees, the icy shrubs and the white driveway, on 
which sped a smart, jingling sleigh, formed a 
winter background to the marble Soldiers’ and 
Sailors’ Arch that stood out in the cold January 
sun. 

Mrs. Morgan looked up from her grape fruit 
and caught her guest, Mrs. Kramer, admiring 
the view. 

“Does that sight please your Chicago eyes, 
Jule?” she questioned, glancing with a smile at 
her convent-day friend. “I never tire of watch¬ 
ing the park entrance.” 

“Oh, ‘my Chicago eyes,’ May, have beheld 
similar scenes, and yours did, too,” added that 
lady with Middle Western pride, “before the Ad¬ 
miral brought you East. By the w T ay, May, you 
should hear from him soon, shouldn’t you? He 
has had time to write from Jamaica,” and Mrs. 
Juliette Kramer raised her brown eyes in fa¬ 
miliar inquiry. 

“I’m expecting a letter in this morning’s mail. 

152 


DISTINGUISHED ANCESTRY 


153 


Except for the wireless Christmas greetings, 
when the ‘Penn State’ was off Hatteras, the Ad¬ 
miral has not sent a line. But that’s his way 
when he goes South to escape the winter’s rigor. 
He gets below Cuba before the letters come, and 
they usually begin and end with a plea for me 
to change my mind, take the next steamer, and 
help him admire tropical scenery. 

“I might, but I don’t fancy the prospect of 
leaving Van Rensselaer in charge of the house 
during our absence. I did that two winters ago, 
Jule, but as Van Rensselaer says, ‘Believe me, 
never again.’ ” 

Mrs. Morgan’s slim right hand went up in 
solemn protestation, an unconscious imitation of 
the gesture her youngest linked with his favorite 
expression. She let her arm drop as the maid 
entered with the letterman’s delivery. 

“Oh, Celeste, what have you there? One from 
the Admiral?” 

“I don’t know, madame, but there are several 
for you and for Mrs. Kramer.” 

Both ladies tore open their envelopes. Break¬ 
fast cooled and the cosy room was silent, but for 
the shrill piping of the canaries and the twitter 
of the other saucy birds that hung in the sunshiny 
bay window. 

“Jule, listen this instant,” cried Mrs. Morgan, 
waving the written sheets that betrayed the Ad¬ 
miral’s pen. “Manly has met a relative, and 
such a relative! But wait. I’ll read it,” her 
glance ran rapidly over the pages. “It’s from 
the Queen’s Hotel, Kingston. He feels much im¬ 
proved in health. Jamaica hasn’t changed. 


154 


IN GOD S COUNTRY 


Couldn’t I meet him at Panama—What did I tell 
you, Jule? —Oh, here’s the place. Just listen: 

“ ‘Last evening I made a curious discovery— 
go from home to learn the news, and all that 
stuff. In the hotel lobby I met a Welshman, Sir 
James Morgan. His “bug” is genealogy, so I 
soon found myself on the stand. (Wished I had 
your bump of memory, May, for I’d have made a 
better witness)’”—Mrs. Morgan’s nose took a 
sudden tilt skyward. “ ‘But when I mentioned 
grandfather hailed from Aberystwyth, my loqua¬ 
cious Welshman went into action at once. He 
started to rapid fire questions and I soon learned 
we were distant cousins. Then he tacked and 
told from whom we were descended. No less im¬ 
portant a personage than the gallant Sir Henry 
Morgan, who was deputy-governor of this “yer” 
Jamaica back in the 1680 ’s, and was knighted by 
Charles II for his executive abilities and—er—r 
—other charming traits.’ ” 

She looked up. 

“I wonder why Manly wrote that ‘other 
charming traits,’ Jule? Sir Henry Morgan, no 
doubt, rendered signal services to the Crown to 
be raised by his sovereign to knighthood.” 

Mrs. Morgan put down the letter and laughed 
to her friend. 

“Now isn’t /that glorious news, Jule? Sir 
Henry must have been one of those delightful 
colonial governors, sent out from England be¬ 
fore the Revolution. I knew there was something 
romantic about Manly, that he sprung from a 
noble line, and I always wanted him to trace back 
his ancestors, but he never would. 



DISTINGUISHED ANCESTRY 


155 


“Van Rensselaer, however, has family pride. 
Only last week he came to me, inquiring if we 
were descended from any famous people, and it’s 
a coincidence, hut he particularly asked about a 
Sir Henry Morgan who lived in Jamaica. Oh, 
I’m sure he’ll feel elated to learn of his father’s 
fortunate meeting!” 

“I didn’t know ‘Buck’ was interested in ge¬ 
nealogy, too,” said Mrs. Kramer. 

“Please, Jule,” begged Mrs. Morgan earn¬ 
estly, “don’t call Van Rensselaer ‘Buck.’ He’s 
a sensitive child and. I think he feels any pointed 
allusion to his prominent teeth.” 

“All right, then, ‘Van Rensselaer’ it shall be. 
But I thought, May, most of his spare time was 
devoted to the revival of piracy.” 

Mrs. Morgan shook her head sadly. 

“Indeed, I can’t account for this strange at¬ 
traction he feels for those sea robbers.” Then, 
decidedly, “He doesn’t get it from me, and I 
trust his awakening interest in the family tree 
will take his mind off this pirate nonsense. 

“But, ‘the gallant Sir Henry Morgan,’ ” she 
went on gayly. “Why, even the name sounds ro¬ 
mantic 'and colonial! I must get his picture for 
the drawing-room,” and she mused on while Mrs. 
Kramer resumed her mail. 

Suddenly recalling her duties as hostess, she • 
exclaimed: 

“Jule, you poor starved dear, your breakfast 
is ruined, while I’ve been ‘two points off my 
course,’ to employ the Admiral’s phrase. Let 
me ring for Celeste and get you hot coffee.” 

The ladies chattered away; then went shopping 


156 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


and motored to Brooklyn Prep to pick up Van 
Rensselaer after class. 

But that young Jesuit pupil was not there. 
Unaware of the coming of his mother’s car, he had 
gone off with Tommie Hamilton. 

The twain were in First Year High and were 
riveted chums through a mutual affection for 
corsairs. During the past three years they had 
talked pirates in the winter free time, and had 
played pirates during the summers on the Mor¬ 
gan houseboat, till now “Buck” Morgan, master 
of the “Revengeful Revenge” and “Cap’n” 
Hamilton, imaginary owner of the imaginary 
pirate ship “Keg of Blood,” had acquired a 
knowledge of the buccaneers of the American 
coast, their lives and ways and ends, that was 
worthy of a college degree. 

This afternoon “Buck” wanted the aid of 
Tommie’s vivid imagination in composing a 
“pirate” epistle to his brother Paul, a Junior at 
Holy Cross, and the two boys were sauntering 
home to write the account before supper. 

Van heard his mother and Mrs. Kramer enter¬ 
taining callers, and as they crept up the front 
stairs he caught, “Yes, my husband happened to 
discover his kinship only recently. It arose from 
a chance meeting. They are a noble Welsh 
family, and had a colonial governor—” but the 
two went up to “Buck’s” room. 

It was the back wall of this “den” that would 
attract, yet repel, the nervous observer. A large 
skull and crossbones pennant, that showed frayed 
edges from many a summer’s breeze and adven¬ 
ture on Gravesend Bay, graced the gilt frames 


DISTINGUISHED ANCESTRY 


157 


of three pictures whose titles—“No Quarter,” 
“A Shadow From the Yard-arm,” and “Capt. 
Kidd’s Last Prize”—at least suggested their 
subject-matter. 

Hamilton, after refreshing his memory with a 
long look at the red deck of the first picture, flung 
his school-books upon the bed and dragged a 
chair across to “Buck’s” desk. 

Then the “pirate” skipper composed, for the 
benefit of the Holy Cross Junior, a description of 
the last make-believe adventure of the Morgan 
corsair and her consort, the Hamilton “Keg of 
Blood.” After which ruddy exercise the two 
captains parted, “Cap’n” Tommie promising to 
drop the gory epistle into the mail-box on his way 
home. 

Van Rensselaer Morgan appeared unusually 
subdued at the family table. Neither his mother 
nor Aunt Jule could notice that they were dining 
with the feared master of the “Revengeful Re¬ 
venge,” whose afternoon exploit was the cap¬ 
ture and scuttling of the giant “Leviathan.” 
“Buck’s” head was swimming with visions of the 
late “deed,” and his share in the table talk was 
purely negative. 

“What is the matter, Van Rensselaer?” asked 
his parent, noticing the unusual silence of her 
thirteen-year-old. “ You seem very preoccupied 
this evening.” 

“Perhaps Van is studying too hard,” sug¬ 
gested Mrs. Kramer. 

“No, Aunt Jule. I was just thinking. But not 
about studies,” he truthfully volunteered. 


158 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


“Mother,” he added a moment later, “did you 
hear from pa yet?” 

“Oh, Van Eensselaer, I’m glad you spoke. 
Your father sent a long letter to-day. It’s in my 
boudoir. And I have good news for you. Do 
you remember last week speaking of our family 
tree, and asking particularly if we were descend¬ 
ants of a Sir Henry Morgan?” 

“Yes, mother. Am I?” Van Rensselaer had 
suddenly come to life in a manner that shook the 
dinner dishes. “Oh, please say ‘yes’!” 

“Well, it seems we are,” continued Mrs. Mor¬ 
gan, delighted at her son’s interest in ancestral 
Morgans. “The Admiral met a relative at Kings¬ 
ton, and this Sir James Morgan is a direct 
descendant of the gallant Sir Henry Morgan who 
was deputy governor of Jamaica back in the 
seventeenth century and was knighted for his 
services by King Charles II.” 

A grin of pure delight had been slowly spread¬ 
ing over the descendant’s features, till its further 
progress threatened to engulf nose and ears. 
Van Rensselaer stopped breathing, sat erect, then 
sprang from his chair and began a wild dance 
around the dining-table. 

“Van Rensselaer! Van Rensselaer, my child! 
stop this at once. Immediately,” cried his 
mother. “Don’t be so demonstrative. It is not 
polite.” 

“Oh, believe me, mother!” exclaimed the joy¬ 
ous “Buck,” hugging and disarranging her eve¬ 
ning toilette. “It’s true then! It’s all true! 
* Sir Henry Morgan, ’ pa wrote ? The gallant Mor¬ 
gan himself ? What, am I a cousin ? ’ ’ 


DISTINGUISHED ANCESTRY 


159 


“Buck” waltzed over to Aunt Jule and, fore¬ 
going manly conventionalities in the shock of his 
father’s news, embraced that lady. 

Mrs. Morgan was perplexed. Aware of her 
son’s new interest in the family genealogy, she 
did not understand why this particular Sir Mor¬ 
gan should throw her youngest offspring into 
such paroxysms of joy. 

“But, Van Rensselaer, do you know the career 
of this distinguished Sir Henry?” 

“Do I know the career of Henry Morgan!” 
flung back “Buck,” forgetful of maternal respect. 
“Say, believe me, I’d rather be a direct descend¬ 
ant of him than the only son of the President. 
Oh, wait till I call up Tommie Hamilton! Ex¬ 
cuse me, everybody, please,” and Van dashed his 
napkin upon the table and darted in the direction 
of the phone. 

Mrs. Morgan sat gazing after him, positively 
worried. 

“Don’t let ‘Buck’s’ capers disturb you, May,” 
said practical Mrs. Kramer, whose knowledge of 
boys and boys’ ways was vast. “Perhaps Van 
knows more interesting details of ‘our new an¬ 
cestor’ than you imagine. They will come out 
soon.” 

The dining-room door had been left open by 
the excited Van Rensselaer in his flight, and the 
two ladies heard the phone bell whir, then 
“Buck’s” shrill voice, higher than usual: 

“Yes, Mrs. Hamilton. May I speak with Tom¬ 
mie, please?” 

There was a pause. 


160 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


“Hello, hello! Hey, that you, Cap’n? It’s me, 
‘Buck’.” 

Mrs. Morgan straightened at her hopeful’s 
English. 

“Congratulate me—"What! No, it’s not my 
birthday. I’m not ‘Buck,’ I’m ‘Buccaneer’ Mor¬ 
gan now—Because there’s real pirate blood in 
me!—No, honest. Who do you think is my an¬ 
cestor?—Guess again—Naw; not that fellow!— 
No; he was hung—Nope—Not Kidd. Better yet 
-—Sir Henry Morgan! —Honest, Tommie, it’s 
true—Direct descendant, yep. I must be a cousin 
at least—How? Oh, pa met a nephew or some¬ 
thing in Jamaica, and he found out he’s a de¬ 
scendant of the buccaneer, so that makes me one, 
too—What? I don’t know about ma. She only 
married into the family. Maybe she’s one by 
marriage though—But, Tommie, ’member when 
he sacked Panama he killed with his own hand— 
What?—You just bet. Wait till I tell the bunch 
at The Prep. Wait till I telegraph Paul. Hoia, 
hoia, chu-chu, rah-rah. Morgan . Me/” 

The listeners heard a chuckle. 

“Too bad, poor Tommie Hamilton, you have 
only ordinary blood in you—Hey? Sure, at the 
corner of Eighth Street, right away. So long, 
Cap’n.” 

It was crystal clear what had caused Van Rens¬ 
selaer’s delight. But Mrs. Kramer did not know 
how Mrs. Morgan would take her son’s ambition 
to waken the neighborhood with the startling 
news till the descendant of the gallant Sir Henry 
“by marriage” called out coldly: 



DISTINGUISHED ANCESTRY 


161 


“Van Rensselaer. Van Rensselaer Morgan.’’ 

“Yes, mother.” 

“Come here this instant.” 

“Buck,” cap and overcoat in hand, entered the 
room. His eyes were shining with pleasurable! 
excitement and he little suspected lurking danger. 

“Sit down and finish your dessert.” 

“But I’m not hungry, mother. I got a ‘date’ 
with Tommie at-” 

“Son!” 

The magic of that single word bewitched the cap 
and coat from Van’s hand and he resumed his 
place. 

“Aunt Jule and I overheard your conversation 
at the phone. Now, will you please tell me just 
what you know of this Morgan individual?” 

“Sure, ma—I mean, mother. Henry was the 
son of a Welsh farmer, born about 1637,” rattled 
off this piratical encyclopedia to the blank amaze¬ 
ment of his parent. “There wasn’t much doing 
around the old farm, so be became a sailor when 
he was about my age and cruised all over—more 
than pa, even—till he came to the West Indies. 
The buccaneers were having a jim-dandy time of 
it there. A Frenchman was their leader, but for 
some cause or other he got hung, and Morgan 
became their captain, and he rose to be the first 
pirate of his age, or any age!” 

“Buck” accompanied this flight with a gesture 
he had acquired that afternoon in elocution class. 

“He took Spanish boats galore, and never a 
man on ’em lived to tell, and once, with thirty- 
nine small ships and two thousand men he at¬ 
tacked Panama—that was before they thought of 



162 


IN GOD'S COUNTRY 


building a canal there, Aunt Jule—and after only 
one day’s siege, he and his brave buccaneers took 
the city!” 

Van Rensselaer had risen, to command better 
attention. He continued impressively: 

“An’ my ancestor put every man and woman 
and child, without regard to age, or sex, or—or 
previous degree of servitude—to the sword! 
There were two and a half inches of blood, 


“What!” exclaimed his horrified parent. 

“—in the main street of Panama that day, and 
after dark they didn’t have to switch on the elec¬ 
tric lights, ’cause every house was in flames. My 
ancestor done that—Sir Henry Morgan!” 

“Buck” Morgan sat down, and Aunt Jule 
absent-mindedly asked: 

“What did your ancestor do then, Van?” 

“Oh, after that, he went back to Jamaica, and 
the English king was so tickled that he made Mr. 
Morgan a knight and gave him a swell job in 
Jamaica. I just forget what it was. But he died 
in 1691—no, 1690—and he was buried with full 
military honors. Gee! Tommie was jealous 
when I told him, mother, but wait till I send a 
telegram to Paul and tell the fellows who we are! 
Wow!” 

Aunt Jule was forming appropriate congratu¬ 
latory remarks in her mind, when Mrs. Morgan 
began: 

“Van Rensselaer Morgan, you will do nothing 
of the kind! You will oblige me by never men¬ 
tioning this person in my presence again. He’s 
your and your father’s forbear; not mine. By 

I 




DISTINGUISHED ANCESTRY 


163 


marriage I contracted no relationship with any 
swashbuckler Morgan ancestor. Now I under¬ 
stand perfectly, Jule, what the Admiral meant in 
his letter by ‘the other charming traits’ of this 
common cutthroat—this—this low pirate leader. 

“But enough! Van Rensselaer, you will not 
meet Thomas Hamilton this evening to spread 
the report of this disgraceful connection among 
your acquaintances. The idea! As for Paul, I 
shall write your brother myself and break this 
news to him as gently as possible. You may 
study your lessons to-night, sir.” 

Mrs. Morgan rose from the table with the look 
of one who has seen the family skeleton, and Van 
Rensselaer, knowing his mother, deemed it the 
part of discretion to heed scrupulously this latest 
maternal command. 

He climbed to his “stateroom,” but study that 
night was wasted effort for happy “Buck” Mor¬ 
gan, remote descendant of the gallant Sir Henry 
Morgan, one time buccaneer and, later, deputy 
governor of His Majesty’s colony of Jamaica. 


THE LAST PEW 


T HEBE is something kindly about the last 
pews in the church. The Pharisees of the 
parish hear the call “Friend, go up higher,” and 
they invariably do. But the Publicans find it 
more consoling to slip into the last pews and here 
whisper their “Be merciful to me, a sinner.” 
The “F. F.” of the congregation have their names 
neatly inserted on the front pews. Usually, the 
pews in the rear are unreserved. The lambs and 
the prize sheep of the flock are pastured up the 
aisle. Alas, the more numerous goats herd in the 
rear. So the varnish sooner wears oft the last 
pews. The wood of their kneeling benches wears 
smooth and shiny, like an old priest’s cassock. 
And like an old Confessor himself, the last pews 
become the confidant of those who labor and are 
burdened. 

When joy rides in the heart it is natural to sail 
up the main aisle and float into the seats nearest 
the altar rails. Children, especially prim little 
misses, unconsciously seek the front pews. 

When sorrow and misunderstandings weigh 
down the shoulders, what is more natural than to 
slink into the wise old last pews and there, with 
troubled head veiled in hands, pour out the whole 
story to Him, Who understands so well. Often, 
the Tabernacle seems nearer to the humble last 

164 


THE LAST PEW 


165 

pews than to the proud pews ahead, that, some¬ 
how, are “not like other pews.” 

The curtained Confessionals, where the mercy 
of God falls on His contrite people, are always 
close to the last pews. 

If the Good Maker had given pews—last pews 
—the gift of tongues, what tales they would have 
to tell! They are the nearest inanimate approach 
to Consolers and Confidants and Father Confes¬ 
sors—those kindly old worn last pews. 

They are reminiscent of some of the more hu¬ 
man Saints: Francis of Assisi, who loved his 
“Lady Poverty” and pal-ed around with furry 
pets; busy St. Anthony, who runs “The Lost and 
Found Department” for High Heaven; and good 
St. Joseph, who gets eventually, the “hard luck” 
stories of all ages and both sexes. 

Yet, sometimes, these understanding last pews, 
like chivalrous Boy Scouts, “Do a Good Turn 
Daily” themselves. 

For instance, that afternoon when Young Doc¬ 
tor Dick dropped into the shadowy church, he had 
no sooner blessed himself with Holy Water than 
quite naturally he slipped into the last pew. 

Professionally speaking, there was not a cloud 
on Young Doctor Dick’s horizon. He had taken 
over Old Doctor Dick’s practice and increased it. 
But there were, this afternoon, too many wrinkles 
on his brow to wager the guess that all was well 
with his world. His goose didn’t honk high. 
Young Doctor Dick looked as though he believed it 
was cooked permanently. And the silent last 
pew, somehow, seemed to understand how mat¬ 
ters stood. 


166 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


Trials look so different from the shelter of the 
last pew. And Young Doctor Dick no more than 
knelt up against the smooth back of the pew in 
front, than two wrinkles in his brow, sort of un¬ 
folded their creases, and, like the wicked, ceased 
from troubling. The last pew was again exerting 
a grandfatherly influence over Young Doctor 
Dick. 

And why shouldn’t it? Hadn’t it been the first 
pew in the church to hold him, when—not so ter¬ 
ribly long ago, as decades go—he waited there, 
a long white-robed and blue-ribboned pagan, 
sleeping in the arms of his prospective god¬ 
mother, while his pastor got salt and oil and water 
ready at the nearby font. Later, Young Doctor 
Dick emitted his first healthy Catholic yell from 
this same old last pew, while his smiling god¬ 
mother tied the lacy bonnet around the pink and 
downy head, still damp with its baptismal drops. 

Of course, last pews cannot think, but they have 
their subtle ways of suggesting thoughts; sooth¬ 
ing, strengthening thoughts, to the perplexed 
minds of their favorites. 

So, in some gentle way, Young Doctor Dick 
found himself recalling the sight of a freckled 
and red-haired self in a soiled baseball suit, with 
“St. Aloysius’ Tigers” streaming across the 
shirt, kneeling right here in this very last pew. 

A stubby hand that was no friend to soap, 
clasped a brand new baseball. A husky voice that 
broke ridiculously at times, was whispering: 
“Make me pitch ’em good to-day. We got to lick 
them ‘Third Ward Midgets.’ That’s all there is 


THE LAST PEW 


167 


to it. And if I only don’t go up in the air! ‘Hail 
Mary, full of grace- 9 99 

Young Doctor Dick looked down at his immacu¬ 
late hands, the strong and sensitive hands of a 
physician, and his eye rested broodingly on the 
ring finger of the right hand. It twisted—that 
baseball finger—faintly reminiscent of a bull 
pup’s tail. Yes; that happened in that disastrous 
game. It hurt too, even after Dolly, rooting loy¬ 
ally on the base-lines, had insisted on turning 
little mother and bandaging it with the ruins of 
her best cambric handkerchief. Young Doctor 
Dick recalled as though he was hearing it again, 
Dolly’s hastily whispered: “Oh! Dickie, go back 
now and get that horrid Calvin Denziger out. He 
can’t run as good as I can.” 

Alas! for the volunteered advice! The former 
star mound-artist of the “St. Aloysius’ Tigers” 
did not desire to remember more of that awful 
slaughter. But there did swim into his vision an¬ 
other time, an anxious time, when he came often 
to this last pew and prayed with the fervor of 
despairing youth. Dolly was very low with diph¬ 
theria, and the blinds were drawn in the upper 
front room of her home across the street. His 
father crossed that street often those anxious 
days and nights, and he remained long in that 
upper front room. There came the evening when 
Dickie had waylaid his Dad and had heard with 
whitening face the confession: “I am afraid 
little Dolly is going Home. The next few hours 
will tell.” The old doctor had suggested: “Bet¬ 
ter run over to the church and say some prayers. 



168 IN GOD’S COUNTRY 

They will help her, son, more than my best medi¬ 
cines.” 

But—thank God!—Dolly survived the crisis, 
and Young Doctor Dick remembered with a sud¬ 
den leap of heart the Saturday afternoon, a 
month later, when dropping into this last pew to 
prepare for Weekly Confession, a wan and thin 
Dolly had come and knelt demurely beside him. 
After saying their Penances, they walked slowly 
home together that happy afternoon; he bashful 
and she more quiet than usual. 

Yes, by George! remembered Young Doctor 
Dick with unseemly satisfaction, that was the 
night I chased and blacked Calvin Denziger’s eyes 
—it was none of his business with whom I walked 
—and I had to go to Confession again before the 
“8 o’clock” next morning. 

Then Mrs. Sheehan had taken her daughter and 
placed her with “The Madames” in another city 
and there came up pleasant memories of the 
Christmas holidays and summer vacations, when 
a bewitching Dolly returned home, and a young 
medical student sought her company. 

Now the two wrinkles came back to Young Doc¬ 
tor Dick’s brow and creased into seven others. 
And the direct cause of these wrinkles were the 
memories of the desirable Miss Dolly Sheehan, a 
debutante now, and these pleasant pictures of 
memory all led up to and broke off abruptly at 
the night of that confounded K. of C. Dance at 
the Parish Hall. 

At least you’d think “The Madames” might 
have taught that girl a sense of elementary jus¬ 
tice! Why wouldn’t she listen to a perfectly justi- 


THE LAST PEW 


169 


fiable excuse? She ought to have inherited sense 
enough to realize that a successful doctor’s time 
is not always his own. . . . 

Young Doctor Dick buried his wrinkled brow 
in his hands at the nightmare memories of the 
bleak past two weeks, and slouched down in the 
understanding depths of the last pew. Dolly is 
unreasonable. . . . And to deliberately take up 
with that simp, Doc Denziger! . . . Why, he is not 
even one of us! 

Young Doctor Dick blotted out all mental pic¬ 
tures and attempted to say some distracted 
prayers. These were not for himself so much. 
For the constant petition in them had to do with 
the request that the Good Lord would give a cer¬ 
tain young woman a grain—one, small grain—of 
plain common horse sense. 

Somehow, he felt better after that heartfelt 
prayer. But he must have been still thinking of 
other things than his prayers, for getting up to 
leave the last pew, he forgot utterly to pick up 
his doctor’s case. It lay there, like a sleeping 
black poodle, on the darkened bench of the last 
pew. 

Young Doctor Dick genuflected reverently in 
the middle aisle and then dropped a heavy piece 
of silver in the Poor Box by the church door, with 
the muttered request—“Don’t forget, please, 
dear Lord, one grain!” 

The last pew seemed to spend the next half 
hour in a brown study. None of the Devout 
Faithful interrupted its meditation. Some few 
came into the church for a visit, but these, 


170 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


ignoring the place of the Publicans, swept up the 
center aisle and sought the seats of the Pharisees. 

Then through the swinging church doors came 
a desirable young lady. She reached a daintily 
gloved hand and caressed the surface of the Holy 
Water font. Blessing herself piously, after the 
manner of “Sacred Heart’’ girls, she sought the 
sanctuary of the vacant last pew. Depositing her 
hand bag on the seat, she knelt up and buried her 
face in her hands. 

At that very instant the kneeling bench of the 
last pew gave a little mouselike creak that might 
have been a wooden form of the ancient verb 
“Eureka!” 

Most contented, this young lady at her devo¬ 
tions appeared to any chance observer. Yet, 
somehow, the last pew suspected otherwise. And 
if the last pew needed ample confirmation of its 
suspicions, that came when a tear, belonging to 
the young lady, escaped and lost itself in the 
depths of the last pew. 

Obviously, things were not as they seemed in 
the last pew. . . . 

An alien noise shattered the calm of the church 
interior and the young lady looked up. 

Colored layers of light that slanted down from 
the western stained-glass windows lit up the sanc¬ 
tuary and the altar steps. Amid this glory strug¬ 
gled along an altar boy. He was attempting to 
carry a prie-dieu. 

Maybe, it was because the light was tinted and 
one sees things out of focus when tears blur the 
sight, but the young lady thought this awkward 
altar boy had red hair. 


THE LAST PEW 


171 


Red hair is not an uncommon bit of personal 
property among those generous youngsters who 
have Tarcisius and John Berchmans for special 
Patrons. But as the altar boy, having deposited 
the prie-dieu before the altar, disappeared within 
the doorway that led to the sacristy, the tear- 
bedimmed young lady in the confidential old last 
pew, had a distinct remembrance of another red- 
haired altar hoy. 

Nor was he vested in the conventional scarlet 
cassock and snowy surplice. Nay, rather, this 
other torchy-topped lad was clothed in a gray 
striped and decidedly soiled baseball suit across 
the breast of which in red flowing script the world 
was invited to read: “St. Aloysius’ Tigers.” 

Instead of kneeling at the foot of the altar, this 
other, head ablaze under the afternoon sun, was 
standing in the pitcher’s box on “Old Man Shu¬ 
man’s lot,” back of the church—the old sand lot 
diamond that had been parceled off into building 
lots a decade ago. 

A little girl, who faintly forecasted the desir¬ 
able young lady, was standing not idle on the 
base-lines. For the little girl, black curls flying, 
was shouting excitedly: ‘ ‘ Strike him out, Dickie! 
Strike the smarty Denziger out! Oh! Dickie, 
please do!” 

Then the little girl had ceased to coach and was 
screaming, for “the smarty Denziger” had 
“stepped into one,” and the red-haired pitcher, 
who had attempted desperately to stop the drive, 
was dancing about the box, waving a red-hot 
finger, and he had forgotten utterly the important 
game and the bounding baseball. 


172 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


And, later, the star pitcher of the “St. Aloy- 
sius’ Tigers,” with the ruins of her best cambric 
handkerchief about the injured finger, had been 
ignominiously knocked out of the box. 

One puzzled “Third Ward Midget” in particu¬ 
lar, had heard tigerish words from an indignant 
little girl, whose dark curls seemed to toss in 
emphatic approval of every syllable she shrilled. 

Then a penitent little girl had sought this same 
last pew to examine her torn conscience. And 
she had whispered in the nearby Confessional: 
“About a hundred words no lady should utter, 
Father, when we lost this afternoon, at a boy who 
batted the ball that mashed Dickie Kane’s finger, 
so that it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t pitch good 
any more.” 

The same young lady, kneeling devoutly in the 
last pew, straightened stiffly, for another mem¬ 
ory had come into her mind. 

It was herself, a taller miss this time, home on 
special leave from the “Sacred Heart.” She had 
been jolly and smiling all through the heart¬ 
breaking minutes at the Station. Even after the 
slim, fiery-haired young Lieutenant had waved to 
her from the fast-receding Observation platform, 
she had forced the smile for Old Doctor Dick’s 
sake. But once free, she had flown to this under¬ 
standing last pew to pray her heart out. And she 
had come again and often, when the news arrived 
that his transport was sailing from Hoboken in 
the morning. In that anxious following August, 
when the whole town knew that their Division 
was at the Front, the last pew knew her daily. 
Again, she remembered the evening she had called 


THE LAST PEW 


173 


gayly across the street to Old Doctor Dick, “Any 
news of the hero!” He had beckoned her to come 
over and shown her the telegram the afternoon 
had brought from the War Department at Wash¬ 
ington. Instinctively, she had sought the familiar 
last pew to pour out agonizing prayers for Young 
Doctor Dick, lying badly gassed in a far-away 
foreign land. 

Young Doctor Dick, still pale and weak, had 
knelt with her here in this same pew that first 
Saturday after his homecoming. Together they 
had made their examination of conscience, and 
then taken their places in line, back of the last 
pew, waiting their turn in the Confessional. To¬ 
gether they had walked home afterward. . . . How 
enthusiastically had Young Doctor Dick told her 
first about the new partnership. “Dad’s getting 
on, Dolly. Says he’s been waiting all these years 
to turn his practice over to me. That simp Den- 
ziger tried to dig in while I was over there, but 
Dad and I’ll put the skids under him. You watch 
and see.” 

Other pleasant memories came into her mind, 
kneeling there, seemingly at her devotions. But 
these all terminated abruptly at the night of the 
K. of C. Dance. 

The new blue evening dress and he had never 
come! Never a word of explanation, and that 
tantalizing music that floated into her home from 
the brilliantly-lighted Parish Hall, half a square 
away! Why, he never even phoned next day! 

Well she remembered, when, at length, the dark 
night of that long next day came, slipping over 
alone to the church and the last pew. It was too 


174 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


much for human nature to endure. She’d never, 
never speak to Young Doctor Richard Kane 
again. 

Then she met Doctor Denziger on her way 
home and they had stopped and talked. He called 
the next afternoon. She had not known he was 
so considerate. . . . Doctor Denziger kept call¬ 
ing. He had even escorted her here Saturday after¬ 
noon and waited most politely in the last pew 
while she went to Confession. 

After that, Young Doctor Kane positively 
avoided her. He, too, had seen her on the avenue, 
and how coldly he raised his hat! 

Yet Calvin was not one of us. . . . 6 ‘Mrs. Cal¬ 
vin Denziger.” It did not sound just orthodox in 
the ears of one christened “Dorothy Mary Shee¬ 
han. 9 9 

Here the altar hoy appeared again in the sac¬ 
risty door and he banged another prie-dieu and 
placed it to the side of the former one. 

Somehow, the sight of his radical auburn hair 
at this particular moment blurred the whole of 
the interior of the parish church. 

Dolly Sheehan searched her pockets in vain. 
I must have dropped it in the street! Then she 
reached back for her bag. Maybe, there is an 
extra handkerchief there. It would never do to 
have red inflamed eyes walking the half square 
home in broad daylight! 

She fumbled and opened the bag and her hand 
touched something cool and snaky. 

Quickly looking down, Dolly discovered she was 
trespassing in a strange bag. There lay a coiled 
stethoscope and from the strange bag arose the 


THE LAST PEW 


175 


odors she always associated with the Infirmary 
at the Convent. 

Telltale eyes were forgotten as she examined 
the strange bag and read the gold-stamped 
“H. K., M.D.” on the side. 

Something else within this bag caught her at¬ 
tention. It was a familiar-looking cambric hand¬ 
kerchief. It was torn and worn. She held it up 
and discovered, embroidered in the corner, the 
initials “D. S.” 

The very idea! 

Very determinedly, she possessed herself of 
this wreck of her girlhood and immediately put 
it on active service again. 

Then somewhat guiltily Miss Dorothy Sheehan 
closed the strange bag and abandoned it to its 
fate on the last pew. 

As she picked up her own bag, preparatory to 
leaving, she looked up and saw her pastor and two 
couples coming out of the sacristy. 

She had no trouble in recognizing the five and 
their business in the sanctuary. So that’s the fel¬ 
low from St. Andrew’s Parish Minnie Davis is 
marrying in the morning? But which is the 
groom and which the best man? 

The four principals in the coming ceremony 
grouped about the priest on the altar, while the 
red-haired altar boy, an interested unofficial ob¬ 
server, that he might miss nothing, impersonated 
a leaning tower in the doorway. 

Dolly herself watched proceedings with deep 
interest. 

She heard the organist move about overhead 


176 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


and then came the first soft tones as the organ 
“warmed up” for its rehearsal. 

Then Dolly started, for the very last young 
man in the world she desired to meet at that 
moment, genuflected in the aisle and knelt in the 
last pew beside her. 

She became very devout, her eyes fixed on dis¬ 
tant things. 

“Pardon, Dolly,” whispered Young Doctor 
Dick, “but I forgot my case-” 

“Don’t take this one, Doctor Kane,” she 
warned, reaching hastily for her own black bag. 
“Possibly, that’s yours on the bench.” 

“Thanks, Dolly, for minding it,” began Young 
Doctor Dick conversationally. “That was char¬ 
acteristic-” 

“Hush! for mercy sake! Don’t you know bet¬ 
ter than to talk in church?” 

“May I pray, then?” meekly asked her com¬ 
panion, burying his respectable auburn locks in 
his hands, “I’m troubled and need light and 
guidance-” 

“Hush! will you?” whispered Dolly, in an im¬ 
perative aside, as she realized that this audible 
prayer might take a very personal trend. 

“If you do insist on praying out loud, Doctor 
Kane, so that everybody in church may hear you, 
let me out, please.” 

But Young Doctor Dick might have been carved 
in pious marble, as he knelt up, effectively block¬ 
ing all exit from the last pew. His gaze was now 
fixed on the bridal party under the sanctuary 
light. The pastor was showing the nervous 
groom-to-be how to place the ring on the bride-to- 





THE LAST PEW 


177 


be’s finger, and the red-haired altar boy had be¬ 
come one broad appreciative grin. 

Young Doctor Dick took his eyes hastily away 
from the peace-destroying tableau and said ear¬ 
nestly : 

“Listen, Dolly, you have to. The reason I 
never came for you the night of the K. of C. 
Dance was, I forgot all about our engage¬ 
ment-” 

“I don’t care to hear another word. Remem¬ 
ber you’re in church, Doctor Kane, and let me 
pass.” This last was hissed. 

“Dolly, I had an accident call and when I got 
home that night, there was another—Dad wasn’t 
feeling well—and I never returned till dawn. I 
intended to call and explain. Then you started 
gallivanting around with that horse doctor-” 

“Doctor Richard Kane!” 

“Yes; you did too. You know it!” 

Young Doctor Dick stopped suddenly. 

In the loft overhead that fool organist had 
started to play the opening bars of “0 Promise 
Me.” 

Dolly hastily sought for her handkerchief. The 
bridal party of the morrow would be coming down 
the main aisle in a few minutes—Minnie Davis 
had the sharpest tongue in the parish—and to be 
caught with red eyes in this ridiculous, impossible 
situation! 

Then she remembered the only handkerchief 
she had with her was the torn remnant she had 
taken from Young Doctor Kane’s case. She’d 
face Minnie before she’d confess to that abstrac¬ 
tion. 




178 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


Dolly glanced at the flaming haired young doc¬ 
tor who knelt so forlornly at her side. 

Then it hadn’t been his fault at all that 
night. . . . 

The pastor was giving the rehearsal party final 
instructions. 

Somehow, all the memories of this last pew 
seemed to come back in a flood and sweep over 
Dolly. “St. Aloysius’ Tigers” . . . “badly 
gassed” . . . 

In their rush was washed away her two weeks’ 
pride, dissolved was her resentment, drowned her 
troubles. Without difficulty she swallowed “one 
grain of plain common horse sense.” 

She begged with a little catch in her voice: 

“Dick, lend me your handkerchief at once, 
please.” 

Silence is golden at times, and also most elo¬ 
quent. 

Young Doctor Dick produced a folded pocket 
handkerchief and under cover of the last pew 
reached it over. 

The organist in the loft, seemingly encouraged, 
was swelling into the grand chords of the Wed¬ 
ding March from Lohengrin. 

Minnie Davis ’ party stepped solemnly down the 
aisle and passed a devout couple in the last pew, 
apparently lost in perpetual adoration. 

When Minnie’s voice was heard in the vestibule 
of the church, Young Doctor Dick turned to his 
companion. 

“Dolly,” he whispered in a husky voice, “my 
machine is outside. Let’s slip downtown and buy 


THE LAST PEW 


179 


Minnie Davis a conple of gross of cambric hand¬ 
kerchiefs for a wedding gift.” 

“Oh! Dickie!” was what she gasped, but, 
somehow, that diminutive contained pardon, con¬ 
trition, and a happy augury for the immediate 
future. 

At least, so it seemed to the worn old last pew, 
as, custodian of a couple of forgotten bags, it 
heard the two pass through the swinging church 
doors to the swelling strains of a full organ. 
“Here comes the Bride!” 


THE EIGHT DECISION 

T HE big black machine slowed down noise¬ 
lessly as they neared the foot of Seventy- 
Second Street; once straightened into Eiverside 
Drive, with the busy blue Hudson partially vis¬ 
ible beyond the park greenery, Dick Fenno threw 
in the clutch and his mother nervously grasped 
his arm. 

“Son, son, we’re not in all that hurry. Ee- 
member this was for ‘a quiet spin’ you inveigled 
me out. I guess, Dick, my racing days are over,” 
she confessed, with a sigh of relief, as the car 
dutifully dropped to a more moderate speed. 

“Oh, I forgot. Sis and the other girls always 
like to hit it up when we strike The Drive.” He 
added a moment later, “If you’d been an Indian 
lady, mother, they’d surely have called you 
‘Mrs. She-likes-the-low-speed’ or ‘Creeping car’ 


‘ ‘ Thank you, Dick, but my Christian names suit 
me perfectly,” said his mother, readjusting her 
gray veil. “I’ll be very glad when you go away 
to college next month, and you and your—what 
is the word!—craze for making Twentieth Cen¬ 
tury time on New York streets will be somewhat 
checked, though I’ll miss my little boy greatly.” 

180 



THE RIGHT DECISION 181 

\ 

Mrs. Fenno glanced affectionately on the tall 
bronzed youth with the squared-rigged shoul¬ 
ders ; and that sickening sense of coming separa¬ 
tion returned. 

Dick gave her hand a mighty squeeze. 

“So will I miss my ‘scary’ parent.” 

“Mother,” he began abruptly, after they had 
gone a couple of blocks, “why won’t you give 
your consent to Cornwall? It’s the best U. in 
the State, and the fellows who go there are dandy 
chaps. You’ve met Ed Cortlandt and ‘Hi’ Haz¬ 
ard and other Cornwall chaps. Why, Ed promised 
the other day that he’d put me up for his ‘frat,’ 
and he belongs to the swellest house. And then 
father’s a Cornwall grad, and why don’t you 
want me to attend the same university?” 

Mrs. Fenno began to understand why she had 
been asked for the “quiet spin.” 

“Eichard, my child, I’ve had reasons to know 
perfectly well your father is an alumnus of Corn¬ 
wall, but remember, he didn’t have the opportun¬ 
ity for Catholic education in his day that you 
have in yours. You know I have nothing against 
young Cortlandt or Hazard; they’re gentlemanly 
boys, but, Dick, they’re not of our Faith, and so 
this question does not affect them.” 

His mother watched the white heights of 
Grant’s Tomb loom ahead, and the straggling 
few visitors drift up and down the broad white 
steps. 

“Why I want you to go to Holy Cross, son, is 
because,”—she thought of her weak-kneed Catho¬ 
lic husband—“I want you to be a practical Catho¬ 
lic, well grounded in your religion. At Cornwall 


182 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


you’d get a first-class education. They’d turn 
you out a polished gentleman, but they wouldn’t 
send you forth a strong Catholic, because they 
can’t give what they haven’t got, and, Dick, that’s 
why I’ll never consent to your going to that, or 
any non-Catholic college.” 

Dick sat sulkily erect and steered in silence. 
The question of where he would matriculate next 
month was still unsettled, and he had his father’s 
word that the final decision rested with his 
mother. All at once his face brightened, and he 
turned the car sharply into the curb, as he 
shouted: 

“Father, hey! Father Flanigan!” 

A large priest, with keen, kindly eyes, stopped 
in his walk; then lifted his hat as he recognized 
the occupants of the panting automobile. 

“Why! Mrs. Fenno, and Dick! Where did 
you drop from? I thought you were miles away 
in the cool mountains this hot August, or I’d have 
been up to the house.” 

“No, Father,” said Dick, opening the door of 
the tonneau and waving the priest to a seat, “we 
beat it back from the White Mountains some days 
ago.” 

“But, Father, what brings you to New York?” 
questioned Mrs. Fenno, half turning in her seat. 

“A retreat at Manhattanville,” replied the 
Jesuit missionary, as he settled back in the cush¬ 
ions. “I was out for a little walk, and I don’t 
mind if you do take me back. I have a meditation 
to give some good ladies at five, and it would 
never do to be late.” 

The machine started ahead. 


THE RIGHT DECISION 


183 


4 ‘Let me see, when was the last time we met, 
Dick?” 

“The night I graduated from Xavier High, 
Father.” 

“Is it as long ago as that? Last June. Oh, I 
remember now. Evening clothes, blushing grads, 
white diplomas, proud mamma, and all that sort. 
But where does he go next month, Mrs. Fenno?” 

“Father, we were just discussing that question 
when Dick hailed you.” Mrs. Fenno spoke 
eagerly, for she knew what influence this old 
teacher had over her son. “He wants to go to 
Cornwall, and I want him to enter Holy Cross.” 

“What’s this, Dick?” said the priest gravely, 
leaning forward and laying his arm on the boy’s 
shoulder. “You don’t want to let the glitter of 
that university blind you. 

“Believe me, I haven’t been a priest so many 
years, but I’ve learnt one thing.” He spoke 
slowly. “The majority of the Catholic lads who 
enter Corwall, leave it—well, they’re not Catho¬ 
lics when they graduate. That’s all. You go 
where you belong, Dick. America for the Amer¬ 
icans and Catholic colleges for Catholics. 

“A mother told me a sad case recently, and it 
was of this same Cornwall. Her son, a sopho¬ 
more, was stricken down while she and the family 
were abroad. Those in his fraternity house called 
in the best doctors available, but they never told 
the neighboring priest, and the Catholic boy died 
two days later without the Sacraments. ‘Ah, if 
1 had sent him to one of our own colleges,’ she 
confessed to me, the tears streaming down her 
face, ‘that couldn’t have happened.’ 


184 


IN GOD'S COUNTRY 


“But, Dick,” the priest went on lightly, notic¬ 
ing his troubled expression, “you don’t look on 
the verge of sudden or lingering death. What do 
you weigh now, lad?” 

“One seventy-eight. Not so bad for nineteen, 
hey, Father?” 

“Fine, fine. You go to Worcester, as your 
mother wishes, and I’ll wager you’ll make the 
eleven. I happen to know,” added Father Flani¬ 
gan, who sometimes found it useful to follow col¬ 
lege athletics, “that both the ‘Purple’ tackles 
graduated last June. That’s your position.” 

Dick thought of the star tackle of Xavier High 
and modestly blushed. 

“Then go to Holy Cross and make good. I’ll 
drop up this fall and see you in a ‘Purple’ uni¬ 
form. But here we are at Manhattanville already 
and I must go back to my retreatants.” 

The machine swung into the Sacred Heart 
grounds and left Father Flanigan. As they sped 
home Dick kept silence till they neared the house, 
then he turned to his parent: 

“Mother, it’s Holy Cross for me. Father Flan¬ 
igan knows what he’s talking about, and he’s dead 
right when he said: ‘Catholics for Catholic col¬ 
leges.’ And what’s more, I’m going to fill one of 
those tackle positions, or know the reason why.” 

Mrs. Fenno went up the stone steps of her home, 
realizing that “the quiet spin” and its chance 
meeting with Dick’s former professor, had won 
her private fight for Catholic education. 

September saw the flying departure of Dick and 
his trunk for Holy Cross, and then Mrs. Fenno 
plunged into preparations for the European trip 


THE RIGHT DECISION 


185 


that the father had promised Dick’s sister on her 
finishing at Manhattanville. 

Mother and daughter sailed for the sunny Medi¬ 
terranean and the sightseeing months in the south 
of Europe flashed by till, late in February, Mr. 
Fenno took a hasty trip abroad and joined his 
wife and Grace in London. 

The three were seated in their room in the Hotel 
Cecil, looking across the foggy Thames, as the 
father related glowing accounts of Dick and the 
Holy Cross chums he had down to the New York 
home for the Christmas vacation. 

“One of those boys,” said Mr. Fenno, enthusi¬ 
astically, “a clear-eyed young fellow, was telling 
me that Dick was the football ‘find’ of the season. 
He practically won the Fordham game, and for 
one thing, mother, I never saw him looking better. 
He’s in splendid health.” 

“Maybe that’s the reason Dick finds no time to 
answer any of our letters,” snapped his sister, 
with a toss of her head. 

While they were talking a bellboy rapped and 
handed Mr. Fenno a cable just received at the 
hotel office. 

“Hello, what have we here?” exclaimed the 
father, running his finger through the envelope. 
“Maybe, Grace, this is Dick’s answer to your last 
letter.” 

His brow contracted as he read and reread the 
white sheet. 

“I can’t make anything out of this. Something 
unexpected must have happened, or Henderson 
would never-” 



186 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


i i What ’s wrong!’ ’ asked his wife anxiously. ‘‘1 
hope nothing serious.’’ 

Mr. Fenno handed her the cable, and Grace read 
it aloud over her mother’s shoulder. 

“ ‘Return New York first steamer. Henderson.’ ” 

“Henderson’s your lawyer, isn’t he!” said 
Grace, taking the cable to examine it closer. 

“Yes; and I don’t see why he sent such a mes¬ 
sage. He knows I intended to sail with you next 
Saturday on the Carnatic . It must be that blamed 
New Amsterdam deal. 

“Well, mother and Grace, business before pleas¬ 
ure. That cuts out our three days in London. ’ ’ 

Mr. Fenno reached for the European edition of 
the Herald and scanned the sailings. 

“Capital. The Mauretania sails to-morrow, 
and we ’ll go by her, ’ ’ and he took up the phone. 

Later in the day came another cable, in answer 
to a message asking for particulars, but it only 
said: 

“Presence necessary. Cable steamer sailing.” 

The three boarded the Mauretania at Liverpool, 
and the giant Cunarder made her usual quick 
passage. 

Coming down the gangplank, Mr. Fenno caught 
sight of his lawyer’s bald head among the expect¬ 
ant crowd on the pier. Mr. Henderson saw them 
at the same moment, and he touched the arm of 
his companion and pointed. 

“Why, Father Flanigan, you here!” cried 
Grace Fenno, recognizing the missionary, as he 
came forward with her father’s lawyer. “This is 
an unexpected pleasure.” 


THE RIGHT DECISION 


187 


“Did Dick send you to represent him?” asked 
the mother. 

Father Flanigan did not answer at once. 

“No; my friend, Henderson,” he said pleas¬ 
antly, shaking hands, ‘ 4 told me he was to meet you 
to-day, and I took the liberty of joining him. I’m 
going to ride up to the house with you, too, if you 
don’t mind,” and he led Mrs. Fenno to the waiting 
limousine. 

On the way uptown the priest kept Grace and 
her mother busy describing their travels, while 
Mr. Fenno and his lawyer conversed in low tones. 

Arriving at the brown-stone home on 64th 
Street, Mr. Fenno stopped his daughter on the 
threshold. 

“Come into the library, Grace, with Mr. Hen¬ 
derson and myself.” 

She followed, wondering how suddenly aged her 
father looked. 

“We’ll leave you, mother,” he called back with 
forced gayety, “to entertain Father Flanigan for 
a while.” 

“And that will be just what I want,” said Mrs. 
Fenno, ushering the priest into the drawing room. 
“I’m dying to hear about Dick. You saw him re¬ 
cently, Father?” 

She sank into a chair by the window. 

Father Flanigan nodded as he crossed the room 
to draw the curtain lower. 

‘ ‘ Quite recently. I happened to be giving a mis¬ 
sion at the Sacred Heart Church, Worcester— 
that’s right below the college—and, Mrs. Fenno, 
I’ll always think it was most providential-” 

“Why do you say that, Father?” 



188 IN GOD’S COUNTRY 

“—that I was near Holy Cross at the time.” 

“Oh, his father was telling ns in London how 
splendid he looked. The picture of health. I think 
I’ll run up to Holy Cross myself soon and see 
him. ’ ’ 

“That won’t be necessary,” said Father Flani¬ 
gan gravely, moving his chair nearer. ‘ ‘ Our Lord 
sometimes asks big sacrifices of us, Mrs. Fenno. 
Big sacrifices,” he repeated, looking her straight 
in the eyes, “big sacrifices, Mrs. Fenno.” 

Mrs. Fenno half rose from her seat and the 
color left her face. 

“Is—is my Dick sick?” 

But she read the real truth in the priest’s coun¬ 
tenance. 

“He’s not-” 

Father Flanigan bowed his head, and in the 
stillness that followed she could hear Grace sob¬ 
bing in the library. The priest took her hand. 

“Mrs. Fenno, that was the cable’s meaning. 
We thought it better to break it to you at home. 
Dick went off with pneumonia very suddenly. The 
Rector phoned me to the Sacred Heart Church, 
and when I was able to come, he had already been 
anointed. I asked him if he was resigned to dying 
when all of you were abroad, and he told me 
smilingly: ‘It’s hard, Father, but that must be 
the particular sacrifice our Lord asks of me, and, 
oh, I’m willing to give Him anything.’ 

“I gave him the Holy Viaticum and he died 
within the hour, peacefully, resignedly. You 
needn’t worry about Dick, Mrs. Fenno.” 

The mother’s lips were moving in her first 



THE RIGHT DECISION 


189 


prayer for her dead son; then after a space she 
looked np through her tears. 

“I’ll thank God all my days, Father, that He 
strengthened me to stand firm for a Catholic col¬ 
lege. Oh, he might have died without the Sacra¬ 
ments at Cornwall.” 

“Yes, Mrs. Fenno, you have reason to be thank¬ 
ful. Though Dick was called very suddenly, you 
will always have the consolation of knowing he 
went well prepared, and God alone knows how it 
might have been among non-Catholic surround¬ 
ings.” And the priest arose to escort the stricken 
mother to the heart-broken two in the library. 


i 


THE KINDLY OLD GENTLEMAN 

I NSTINCTIVELY Josephine genuflected at the 
head of the main aisle and turned to the right. 
She knelt at the altar-rails and raising her eyes 
trustingly, looked into the calm familiar features 
of the Kindly Old Gentleman. Since her “ pig¬ 
tail ?? days, Josephine had been accustomed to 
come and kneel here whenever she wanted some^ 
thing special. And now she did want something 
very special. 

Save for the periodic movements of the peni¬ 
tents by the confessionals, it was confidentially 
quiet in the church and the warm lights from ‘ ‘ The 
Flight into Egypt’’ window cast still shadows on 
the set face of the Kindly Old Gentleman and made 
him appear particularly paternal. Holding his 
marble lily as a royal scepter he listened and 
never seemed to offer an objection when Josephine 
suggested that there was one who worked in the 
same office with her, and might he do 1 
The Kindly Old Gentleman never expressed 
surprise, when Josephine whispered the name of 
this particular one. But the changing afternoon 
light, straining through the stained-glass window, 
suddenly brightened the statue’s features into al¬ 
most a smile and with the transformation an an- 

190 


THE KINDLY OLD GENTLEMAN 191 


noying remembrance arose in Josephine’s mind. 
It was the gently ironic question Father Morini 
had put to her a few minutes before: 

4 4 My child, are you seriously thinking of go¬ 
ing through life as Mrs. Luther Howricks?” 

Somehow, the Kindly Old Gentleman seemed 
now to be repeating her confessor’s query. Jo¬ 
sephine dropped her eyes to the altar-rails. Then 
she whispered, though no objection had been 
raised: 

44 Well, my Blessed patron, I know he’s not one 
of us, but there isn’t anybody else.” 

The Kindly Old Gentleman pondered this limi¬ 
tation, till Josephine spoke petulantly: 

4 4 Well, if you also object to me becoming 

Mrs.-” Somehow, in this orthodox presence 

she could not bring herself to use that heretical 
name, so she substituted: 44 becoming Mrs. Jose¬ 
phine Ho wricks, you’ll have to throw a nice young 
man in my way. Do you hear me?” 

He made no reply and after a pause, his client 
continued: 

4 Wou know yourself, they’re scarce as a million 
gold dollars in this old town.” 

Nor did he even nod his disbelief that such kind 
were 44 scarce as a million gold dollars.” 

Josephine looked up at him, partly ashamed of 
her small outburst of impatience, and said 
humbly: 

44 0 my own Saint, help me to meet an eligible 
one in your own way! You know you never, never 
fail me.” 

Lavishing a filial smile on the Kindly Old Gen¬ 
tleman, that should have gone a long way toward 



192 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


softening his marble heart, Josephine blessed her¬ 
self piously. 

By the curb in front of the broad stone steps 
of St. Joseph’s Church stood two vacant ma¬ 
chines; one long and luxurious, the other small, 
square and serviceable. 

Josephine had passed the aristocratic one, when 
on sudden impulse she halted beside its lowly 
sister. She searched in the shallow depths of her 
mystery bag and brought out a tiny thing. It 
was a crude metal libel, alleged to be a likeness 
of the Kindly Old Gentleman. Very deliberately 
Josephine approached the curb and flipped the 
alleged likeness into the forward part of the 
small, serviceable car. Nobody noticed Joseph¬ 
ine’s action, except possibly an elderly sparrow 
who narrowly escaped assassination. Josephine 
herself offered the indignant ruffled bird no ex¬ 
planation of her action, though when she crossed 
the Avenue and entered the ground of St. Joseph’s 
Hospital, she did remark within the hearing of 
another large statue of the Kindly Old Gentle¬ 
man, these cryptic words: 

“Now, my Father Patron, you please ride 
around and pick me out a reliable, easy, econom¬ 
ical, nice dear, or else—” 

As she walked up the driveway that curved 
around the statue’s green island, the rest was 
mumbled. But the stony ears of the statue must cer¬ 
tainly have caught the heretical name, “Luther.” 

The Kindly Old Gentleman, who was invisible 
partner in most of the good works performed in 
that neighborhood, had been gazing across the 
Avenue into the vestibule of his namesake church, 



THE KINDLY OLD GENTLEMAN 193 


maybe, a quarter of an hour. His gray venerable 
figure might be said to have been in a brown 
study, as he watched other penitents and clients 
come out and pass on their ways. 

Two old ladies stopped to gossip in the vesti¬ 
bule and a skipping lassie and an obvious altar 
boy circled around them. A languid couple ap¬ 
peared leisurely in the church doorway. Lei¬ 
surely they descended and leisurely the long, 
luxurious machine rolled away. 

Then on the top steps of St. Joseph’s Church 
appeared an alert young man. He was evidently 
a particularly nice young man. He had a clean- 
cut serious face and eternally laughing eyes that 
frankly smiled straight across the Avenue into 
the face of the watching statue. Though he wore 
blue civilian clothes there was a military set to 
his shoulders that bespoke olive drab in recent 
years. There was almost a boyish rush to the 
way he raced down the broad steps and sprang 
into the small, serviceable car at the curb. This 
nice young man pressed buttons and pushed 
levers. The Avenue was almost deafened by the 
noise that arose. Then with increasing speed 
the small, serviceable car crossed the avenue di¬ 
agonally and swung noisily into the hospital 
grounds. 

Josephine, her charitable call on old crippled 
Mrs. Mason over, was coming down the driveway 
that divided around the entrance. She heard a 
small serviceable car approaching and had a fleet¬ 
ing wish that she might be seated in the vacant 
seat this glorious afternoon. As the auto came 
nearer, she stepped toward the statue’s flowered 


194 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


plot to give it leeway. Then she retreated hur¬ 
riedly into the tulip bed, for the machine had 
most impulsively swung toward her. She saw a 
nice young face grow pale before her eyes. 

Josephine came into full possession of her vocal 
chords; for the small, serviceable car was ruining 
many bright tulips. Then it bumped most irrele¬ 
vantly into the pedestal of the Kindly Old Gentle¬ 
man’s statue and its nice young occupant came 
hurtling by her head. The next second, out of 
the sky something violent (it felt like the Hospital 
building or a major portion of the moon), struck 
her arm. Shortly after, both Josephine and the 
nice young man were carried into St. Joseph’s 
Hospital utterly unconscious of all the excitement 
they were causing. 

Later, the car, smaller and evidently less ser¬ 
viceable, was hauled away. The neighborhood 
departed, its youth last. While the statue of the 
Kindly Old Gentleman lay all that night at the 
base of its pedestal with its face buried in a 
totally wrecked tulip bed. 

Josephine, with her left arm and its sling mak¬ 
ing a white triangle before her, had come up to 
the sun parlor to think. Her mood was sadly out 
of keeping with the warm bright golden glow that 
flooded the glassed enclosure. All her present 
thoughts were overcast and cloudy gray and they 
linked back to a chance remark a fellow stenog¬ 
rapher had made while paying a visit to Jo¬ 
sephine. For her caller had reminiscently 
observed: 


THE KINDLY OLD GENTLEMAN 195 


4 ‘ Luther is a dear boy. Just imagine, Josie, 
he has taken me to two shows this week!” 

When her caller went, Josephine took a large 
bouquet that stood on her bureau and dumped it 
into the wastebasket. Then she had sought the 
solace of the sun parlor. She watched, without 
seeing them, the myriad flat roofs, broken by an 
occasional spire or aerial ad, while little green 
thoughts were dancing like little green demons 
on the lawn of her mind. By-and-by, a pleasant 
voice spoke at her side: 

“I beg your pardon, Miss, but I believe we met 
last week by St. Joseph’s statue.” 

Josephine faced the pale convalescent, who had 
silently wheeled up his chair from the far end of 
the sun parlor. She managed to smile and say: 
“Oh!” 

Somehow, this nice young man considered this 
a formal introduction and an invitation to justify 
his recent misconduct. His account ran on 
smoothly, as though he had retold it for the hun¬ 
dredth time. He explained how he had just come 
from Confession (wasn’t it providential?), and 
he was late for an hospital appointment, so he 
had started the small, serviceable car in a hurry 
—it was so reliable, a dog could run it—when 
that most amazing steering disobedience hap¬ 
pened in the driveway. Then he added: 

“But the garage sleuths at the auto hospital 
dug out the root of the difficulty. Look at this, 
Miss.” 

He held out something in his hand. 

“Some crazy fool idiot deliberately placed this 


196 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


unbaptized slug in my gear while I was in church. 
Can you believe that! Now I ask you, Miss.” 

‘ * What is it!” questioned Josephine innocently, 
and the nice young man held up his palm. 

“Here, what do you make of it! Blessed if I 
know! There were some peculiar markings on 
it, almost as if it were an image once, but the 
boys assured me it caused all the damage, the dis¬ 
tressing trouble, that hectic afternoon.” 

The nice young man was looking at Josephine 
so obviously that she had a passing suspicion he 
really did not believe the accident had been so 
troublesome. She dropped her eyes to that which 
lay in her unharmed hand. Then she gave a gasp 
that startled the nice young man considerably. 
For though the pagan slug was mashed almost 
unrecognizably, Josephine recognized what it had 
been. She felt very faint. She said, “Oh!” 
again, and almost threw back at the nice young 
man his “unbaptized slug.” 

She fled the sun parlor, leaving behind her a 
most bewildered convalescent, who kept looking 
at the tiny metal in his hand and then at the 
empty doorway. The next remark of the nice 
young man showed clearly that he had not as yet 
succeeded in breaking himself of a habit of words 
he had acquired while in his country’s service 
overseas. 

It was ten days later and the weather predic¬ 
tion that morning had read, “Light rains this 
afternoon.” Despite this clean weather warning, 
Josephine left the office early, for she had decided 
she must confide her horrible secret to Father 


THE KINDLY OLD GENTLEMAN 197 


Morini. She stopped at the tiny florist’s, a few 
squares from the church, and when she emerged 
she carried a long oblong box. Within it, were 
the tall favorite flowers, destined to wither de¬ 
voutly before the Kindly Old Gentleman’s statue. 

For once the Weather Bureau was correct and 
4 ‘ the light rains ’ ’ commenced to fall heavily. St. 
Joseph’s Church was across the Avenue, but a 
gray barrage of water made that dripping edifice 
temporarily as inaccessible as lofty Everest. Jo¬ 
sephine fled for shelter into the handy hospital 
and prayed fervently that fate and the angels 
would keep a particularly nice young inmate of 
that hospital out of the visitors’ parlor. 

Without, the ‘‘light rain” came down as in the 
earlier days of Noe’s cruise. Through the win¬ 
dows Josephine caught a splashy view of the re¬ 
painted statue of the Kindly Old Gentleman, now 
restored to its place of honor between the hospital 
driveway. Then out of this torrential downpour 
appeared on the Avenue a small, serviceable car. 
Its bright gray tires and shiny black body pro¬ 
claimed its recent departure from Detroit. It 
turned into one of the circular torrents and taxied 
up to the hospital’s covered entrance. 

Josephine caught the welcome voice of Father 
Morini in the corridor. She hurried across the 
parlor and called him. When she had revealed 
her horrid secret, Father Morini said irrelevantly: 

‘‘1 happen to know that eligible young driver. ’ ’ 
Josephine thought within herself that her con¬ 
fessor put an entirely unnecessary accent on the 
middle adjective. “He’s the able President of 
the Young Men’s Sodality and he has been speak- 


198 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


ing of you repeatedly. It seems he’s very much 
worried about some unintentional offense he gave 
you in the sun parlor the other day.” 

‘‘I never want to see him again,” declared Jo¬ 
sephine emphatically. “I’d die.” 

Father Morini looked at the damp box that 
Josephine still held. Then he said suddenly: 

“Well, before you depart from our midst, my 
child, why not place these lilies before your pa¬ 
tron’s statue yourself? Say, as a thank offering. 
Gratitude is always rewarded.” 

“In this rain, Father? I’d get wet as the ocean 
crossing the Avenue.” 

Father Morini’s only reply was: 

“It’s clearing already. Come with me.” 

And he escorted her to the covered entrance 
of the hospital. 

The storm had stopped as suddenly as it had 
begun and a rainbow of majestic curve spanned 
the heavens from the hospital to the church. Jo¬ 
sephine exclaimed: 

“Oh!” 

But it was not the rainbow’s beauty that occa¬ 
sioned that exclamation. There stood a brand 
new small serviceable car and in the driver’s seat 
sat the President of the Young Men’s Sodality. 
The priest helped Josephine in. Then he said to 
the driver: 

“Joe, please leave these flowers on the altar- 
rails in the church and then drive this young lady 
to the proper corner for her trolley. That is, if 
it’s not too much bother.” 

The nice young man winked at the rainbow and 


THE KINDLY OLD GENTLEMAN 199 


then he looked at Josephine, as he said to Father 
Mo r ini: 

‘ ‘ Sure, Father, hut why the trolley corner only ? 
It will be a pleasure for me to drive her home. 
That is, if she doesn’t mind.” 

And this time the nice young man did not 
bother looking at the great rainbow in the skies. 
Then Father Morini remembered to introduce 
them, and Josephine again said: “Oh!” when she 
learnt the nice young man’s surname. 

The Avenue glistened refreshed and the church 
front sparrows were chirping joyously as the ma¬ 
chine steered obediently past the site of its prede¬ 
cessor’s unfortunate disobedience. Father Mo¬ 
rini watched its progress and he smiled a peculiar 
smile when the small serviceable car stopped 
across the Avenue. He saw Joseph Ford, carry¬ 
ing a box of lilies and, despite his limp, gallantly 
escorting Josephine into the church vestibule. 

Father Morini prognosticated loud enough to 
be heard by the Kindly Old Gentleman, w T ho stood 
restored on his pedestal before the hospital: 

“Holy Matchmaker of this parish, our Married 
Men’s and Women’s Sodalities will gain two re¬ 
cruits shortly or—” 

Whatever followed that “or” is lost, but it cer¬ 
tainly was not that heretical name, “Luther.” 


THE DESIRED DAY 


A YOUNG mother sat in the low, easy chair by 
the open fireplace; her baby, warm and rosy 
in blue and white, in her arms. Their dancing 
shadows, like the wings of angels, fluttered noise¬ 
lessly against the dim walls of the grate-lit room. 

‘‘ Soon my tiny philosopher will speak, and tell 
Mother what are the grave thoughts he thinks all 
day long.” 

The round-eyed philosopher crowed and 
stretched pudgy fingers toward the golden coals. 

Then this mother, like the mothers of every 
clime, fell to musing on the future of her child. 

Again the baby on her lap reached toward the 
waving flames, and something in his posture made 
her castle-building picture the group of Our Lady 
of Purgatory, that she loved to pray before at 
Holy Souls’. Catching up a gray shawl, she let 
it trail over her shoulders, and, lifting the dear 
bundle to her knee, enclosed the small hand and 
raised it blessingly, as did the Lady in the group, 
over the restless waves before them. Now she 
was the Pitying Mother and her little boy the 
Bambino. 

The babe crowed and the fond mother-eyes 
thought they saw the puny right hand make of its 
own accord a rude blessing. 

200 


THE DESIRED DAY 


201 


She clasped the hands, tiny palms up, and, as 
though they were freshly anointed, touched them, 
murmuring: “Prayer is almighty and God is 
good. Perhaps, perhaps my little Paul will be 
some day.” Then ever so reverently she drew 
her wee son toward her to whisper: “Father 
Paul. Father Paul.” 

A quiet boy, barefooted, in blue overalls and 
open-throated white shirt, lay coiled up in the 
wide bench of the vine-draped summer-house. 
The late summer sun checkered through the west¬ 
ern wall, gilding in spots the bright cushions and 
the boy, lost in his reading. 

A “yellow jacket” buzzed noisily, ominously 
near, but sheered off as the reader drew his knife 
swiftly through the uncut leaves. 

Finally, with a sigh as though regretfully leav¬ 
ing a loved one, he let the book drop to the gravel, 
and, uncoiling back, with lowered lids and browned 
arms under brown curly hair, he dreamed again 
the scene. It stood out clear: The slim child-hand 
guarding the Treasure that lay above his throb¬ 
bing heart; the rude hails, “Join us in our game, 
Tarcisi'us!” and the young Bearer of the Mys¬ 
teries’ repeated refusals; the curiosity and the 
anger, and there at the pleasant Roman roadside 
the vain tearing and the rain of blows. Then the 
burly Quadratus breaking through and lifting the 
limp lad that, like a crushed ciborium, still clasps 

his Treasure unprofaned. 

“So here’s where my blue-eyed dreamer of 

dreams is! I knew it.” 


202 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


The boy came back to the present, for he had 
not heard the soft tread across the lawn. 

“And is that the way Paul treats my birthday 
gift? Doesn’t he care for ‘Fabiola’?” She slid 
the half-finished cassock off her arm and, stoop¬ 
ing, placed the discarded book alongside it on the 
circular bench. 

“You bet he does! But say, Mom, that Tar- 
cisius was a boy in a hundred! Gee! I’d like to 
have known him, wo'uldn’t you, Mom ? ’ ’ 

The little mother had seated herself across the 
round summer-house and her needle was busy on 
a final seam of the brilliant garment. 

“Why, Bunny, I have—for years,’’ and she 
smiled, thinking of her nightly prayer to this pa¬ 
tron of altar boys. 

“Just think, Mom, it took nerve to tell that 
gang of kids to chase themselves, an’ then when 
they didn’t— Gee! that musta hurt! But good 
old Quadratus! He was a regular Irish cop, he 
was, and he certainly cleaned ’em up.” 

The little mother dropped her labor of love and 
laughed merrily. “That’s true, dear. He does 
bear a striking resemblance to an Irish cop.” 

She held the cassock at arm’s length.” 

“Get up, Lazy Bones, and see how this new one 
fits.” 

It set well across the shoulders and trailed the 
right length behind. The scarlet figure paraded 
solemnly around the summer-house and, stopping 
before the admiring face, raised his right hand, 
blessing in the triple manner cardinals do. 

The little mother’s eyes filled, and she as sol¬ 
emnly bowed her head. 


THE DESIRED DAY 


203 


“Does My Eminence look all right?” 

She glanced up, catching the roguish twist at 
the corners of his mouth. 

“Provided Your Eminence’s hair would ‘come 
to order,’ and,” she caught a glimpse of a row 
of toes, “provided Our Venerable Brother’s feet 
were shod—yes.” Then, hastily, “Give me that. 
Dance at Your Eminence’s peril!” 

When Paul lacked two months of seventeen, and 
his father had been dead half a year, he gradu¬ 
ated, sixth in his class, from Xavier High. And 
it was the night of graduation, as they sat in the 
big, still dining-room—Harry and sleepy Francie 
having been lunched and kissed and sent yawning 
upstairs—that Paul first told the little mother 
definitely. 

Then, because she was very happy, she cried, 
and Paul made her promise solemnly not to tell 
a soul, “not even Harry and the kid,” just yet. 

They closed the brown-stone city house and in 
the cool of the tree-hidden home at Glen Cove 
passed the days of that last summer together. 

Out on the misty Sound Paul taught Harry how 
to handle the racing cat. Then, when Harry had 
proved himself an able sailor in two squalls, and 
they were returning one glorious evening, skirting 
the yellow-cliffed Long Island shore, Paul told his 
brother and, near to tears, made him a present of 
the well-beloved Sea Scamp. 

Then impish Francie was let into the big secret, 
and he promptly begged his older brother to teach 
him swimming before he went. So each day, in 
the clear, green water at the top of the flood, 


204 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


Francie solved the mysteries of the “dead man’s 
float,” the “dog paddle,” that “awful hard” leg 
stroke and — memorable afternoon! — made his 
first brave attempt across deep water and landed, 
gasping and gleeful, in the outstretched arms of 
Paul. 

The little mother smiled much, and prayed 
more, those dwindling days, and she and her eld¬ 
est took long, confidential walks in the breezing 
shadows of the August evenings, her arm clinging 
lovingly to his, and she spoke in wondrous, grate¬ 
ful manner of the great gift that the dear Lord 
was giving her first-born and herself. 

Very simply, leaving two sniffling boys and a 
black-gowned figure that waved bravely as long 
as the rear car was in view, Paul broke the home 
ties. 

Now the strange, joyous, hidden life of the no¬ 
vitiate closed over Paul and he became “Brother 
McManus.” Twice, during the four years he 
spent there, the little mother came to see him: 
During the first Villa, and he noted the reverence 
with which she fingered his old, greenish habit 
and the chain of beads that hung at his side; and 
again, Vow Day, when she shared with him the 
joy of heaven for an afternoon. 

Paul was nearing the end of his third-year 
philosophy when he went home for the first time 
—the May impish Francie was drowned on his 
class picnic—and he knew his presence was a tan¬ 
gible comfort to the little mother, who forgot her 
grief in preparing with her own hands the old 
favorite dishes. 

During the five years of his regency—the two 


THE DESIRED DAY 


205 


at Gonzaga and the three at Holy Cross—regu¬ 
larly as Saturday she wrote, and in the leisure of 
an occasional Sunday afternoon he replied. His 
letters were filled with the incidents of the class¬ 
room, the treat of an auto trip; and hers, bulky 
and extra postaged, told the gossip of home and 
friends, but they always ended with the prayer 
that he would prove faithful for the great day to 
come. 

And when, his teaching over, he was sent back 
to the scholasticate, and that goal grew near, the 
faithful letters betrayed more and more the long¬ 
ing of the years. 

She came to see him the Easter before ordina¬ 
tion—the same little figure in widow’s weeds, and 
she seemed so worried to find a few stray gray 
hairs among his curly brown—though hers were 
a snow-driven white now—and she scolded him, 
hand on his arm, for studying too hard. He 
laughed her fears away, assuring her his work 
would soon be over, but she corrected him in the 
gay way of old, telling him his work had not be¬ 
gun yet. 

At the close of the visit, as they waited on the 
platform for the Baltimore train, she made him 
stoop low and, on tiptoe raising herself, signed 
him, repeating the words he remembered so well 
—“Now, Cross of Christ about you, beloved 
Paul. * ’ 

Then the local whistled beyond the bend and in 
the approaching rumble he heard her say: 

4 ‘Paul, dear, it’s less than three months oft 
now, and, oh, it seems longer than all these years. 
But I’ll be there, if I have to come on my knees 


206 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


from purgatory. Sure, blessed Heaven couldn’t 
hold me away that morning!” 

He kissed her and lifted her aboard, and not¬ 
withstanding the conductor’s protests, she stayed 
on the platform, looking back, till the train swept 
around the second bend. 

On a Sunday afternoon in early June the mes¬ 
sage came, and they hurried him to Baltimore 
through the rain and the clinging red of the Fred¬ 
erick Pike. Never will Paul forget the eternity 
of that night, when the express snailed across the 
black meadows of Jersey. 

Harry met him at the door—a Harry with red, 
swollen eyes—and Paul knew. 

She lay, as he turned down the white sheet, 
peaceful and twenty years younger; the smile of 
glad recognition still on her lips. 

“Why! Mother was well as you and I, Paul, 
only this morning. ’ ’ Harry was taking the straw 
hat his brother dazedly carried. “After Mass she 
said she felt a bit weak and would rest. Mary 
found her quite ill; the doctor came, and he sent 
the telegram at once. 

“She spoke mostly of you and she was saying 
this was nothing, and she’d be all right in time 
for the Big Day, when the heart stopped.” 

After the plain, flowerless funeral—her will 
was insistent on these points—Paul and his great 
loneliness went back to the scholasticate, and two 
weeks later he and the other “ordinandi” were 
subdeacons one day and deacons the next. 

That evening Harry’s wife, with the white-clad, 
bare-kneed Junior, came, and they brought word 


THE DESIRED DAY 


207 


that Harry was hurrying to the Chicago office, 
and sent regrets. And so in the morning the two 
were all the relatives that saw Paul kneel in his 
turn at the feet of the frail, bent Cardinal; receive 
the sacred anointing, the mystic laying on of 
hands, and the tremendous powers of the Chalice 
and the Keys. 

When the Mass was over, the semicircle of 
freshly ordained broke and passed among the 
pews; each giving his first blessing to his own 
beloved group. Then it was that Father Paul, 
seeing but a brother’s wife and little son, broke 
down. 

But he blessed the two bowed heads—as he 
blessed many another on corridor and stairs that 
day—with his thoughts far away, for he was 
thinking of the one who had waited in prayer and 
patience through the long, long years for this first 
blessing. 

Down in the mortuary chapel, that stands a 
white octagon centering the simple cemetery of 
his Order, Father Paul, in red, for it was Peter 
and Paul’s day, said his First Mass for her. 

A nervous, distracting Junior, who had learned 
the Latin specially for the occasion, served him, 
and a favorite old professor, standing by in sur¬ 
plice, had to assist him only once, and that was 
when he hesitated, as all young priests do, before 
he pronounced the Words. 

As he straightened after the Consecration, there 
came over him the feeling that she was near— 
such a feeling as he used to experience in the 
long ago, when she came to his bedside for the 
forgotten kiss. And with this conviction that she 


208 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


was by, the loneliness of the past few weeks, like 
snn-touched mist, rolled np. 

Trembling, he gave the two—Harry’s wife and 
the server—Holy Communion, and all the time 
he could not, he did not try to, shake off the joy¬ 
ous sense that one saw 'with satisfaction his min¬ 
istrations. 

But his joy was destined to overflow. With a 
light heart he had prayed at the Postcommunion 
that peace and eternal light might be hers. Then 
he came to the center of the altar, swung around 
for the “Dominies Vobiscum heard his nephew 
at his feet, and saw the boy’s mother, deep in 
her Thanksgiving. Through the open doorway 
showed the straight gravel path to the cemetery 
gates; a plump robin hopping in the barred 
shadows. 

Then—all unknowingly—he kissed the altar 
stone and began the Last Blessing. As he turned 
with raised hand, “Pater et Filius,” he stopped. 
The open doorway had been blotted out. There, 
under his raised hand, in the glow of a glorious 
dawn, knelt the little mother. Familiar, yet 
strange, were her features, and in her face, writ¬ 
ten large in lines of living light, was perfect 
peace. 

She looked straight at him—her priest of God 
at the altar—then the head bent contentedly, and 
he was saying, “et Spiritus Sanctus,” completing 
his blessing. Then he was gazing through the 
open doorway on the gravel path to the cemetery; 
the plump robin hopping in the barred shadows. 


A TASTE OF JUG 


B OOKIE EDWIN was my own cousin. So 
when he was drowned down in the surf at 
[Ventnor, being exhausted after getting me when I 
had gone under twice, I felt it, more than the 
other fellows did. Gee! The rest of that vacation 
it seemed like it was cloudy and going to rain, 
even when the sun was shining brightly. And 
I used to lie in bed at night, and then I’d think 
of all the things Bookie had done for me, down 
to the last one. And lying there with my eyes 
shut I could see his stocky figure, and I could hear 
Bookie’s husky voice again, the way he’d always 
butt into an argument: 4 ‘Aw, you kids don’t know 
nawthing! ’ ’ 

Honest, I used to get blue as navy blue, for 
he and I had planned to go to St. Joe’s together. 
We wouldn’t have been in the same class, for my 
cousin was Third High and I was just starting, 
but that wouldn’t have mattered a whole lot. 

Well, anyway, I went there to school in Sep¬ 
tember, and you know how it is at a new place 
where you only know two or three boys out of 
five hundred. I guess I felt somewhat like Bookie 
must have up there before he got to know the 
others. But it was pleasant and new, and I forgot 


210 IN GOD’S COUNTRY 

that the other fellows in First High were just 

as greeny. 

We had a man teacher, and that was something 
new, too. Bookie always used to say that men 
teachers were good enough for him, but he didn’t 
want any thin, tall ones wished on him, for they 
are sure to be strict as the deuce. But my new 
teacher, he wasn’t that kind—not be more than 
a hundred pounds, I guess; and I’m almost as 
tall as he is. And he was jolly, too. Once, in 
English class, I forgot and called him “Sister,” 
and everybody laughed. Afterwards Wish Gos- 
nell, who sits in front of me—and he was new 
to school, too—put up his hand and said seri¬ 
ously: ‘ ‘ Please, sir, are you called Mister or 
Father, or which?” And our teacher said right 
away: “Aloysius, there is one sure, easy and safe 
way to tell. If we are young and handsome, call 
us Mister. So, boy, what’s my title?” Wish 
grinned and said: ‘ ‘ Father. ’ ’ And Mr. Albright, 
he laughed, too. 

But that isn’t the true way to tell the priests 
from the to-be-ers, for some of the Fathers aren’t 
bad lookers. 

There was old Father Maidment, for instance. 
Now he was as handsome as General Pershing’s 
picture, and he was ever so much older, too. 

I remember the first time I ever seen—no, saw 
him. Fats Kramer and I were in that long cor¬ 
ridor outside the classrooms, and Fats was copy¬ 
ing my Latin homework, for he had studied at 
the movies last night, and he knew Mister would 
jug him sure as anything if he didn’t bring it in. 
(You know, “jug” is what the fellows call being 









'A TASTE OF JUG 


211 


kept in after two-thirty p. m. in the afternoon 
when school lets out.) 

So Fats was busy doing my Latin, when he 
just happened to look up, and he said low: 4 ‘Good 
night! Here’s old Father Over There.” 

I did a right-about quick, and there was a white- 
haired priest coming down the corridor. He was 
tall, and he walked as if he was a general in 
khaki, yet he didn’t look so stern. He kind of 
looked like he would call you Johnnie till he knew 
your front name, and then he would call you that 
forever. 

He was looking at us, half smiling-like, and yet 
I bet you he didn’t see either of us. I don’t 
know just how it was, but he seemed to be smiling 
at somebody in the wall back of us. Then he 
passed by; and Fats, he finished copying my 
theme. 

-Afterwards I said to Fats, “I say, what did 
you call that priest?” And Fats said, “Father 
Over There. Don’t you know?” And I said, 
“No.” And he said, “Well, you better, boy. That 
old gentleman has got S-T-period in front of his 
name, or I don’t live in Lansdowne. Didn’t you 
hear Father Maidment called ‘Over There’ be¬ 
fore?” And I said “No,” again. And Fats said, 
“Notice he didn’t seem to see us, but some boys 
in the wall over there? That’s why. He’s al¬ 
ways after you to pray for the boys in purgatory, 
and I think half the time he sees them, or they 
S. 0. S. him, or something. Anyway, he knows 
something, he does. But believe me, there isn’t 
any nicer Father in the whole college. You go to 
him Saturdays and see.” 


212 


IN GOD'S COUNTRY 


Saturday morning after recess, came Confes¬ 
sion Hour, and I headed for the back of the Gesu. 
Just as Fats said, I found the pushingest crowd 
of kids outside Father Maidment’s confessional. 

Wish Gosnell, he got in first, and then I got in. 

When Father shot the screen and I heard his 
“Well, my child?” I just somehow didn’t feel a 
bit nervous. And at the end he said gently, 4 ‘ My 
boy, for your penance say three Hail Marys in 
aid of the boys in purgatory. Make a good Act 
now.” And his old hand went up in the dim 
light and crossed and fell, as I bet it had done 
thousands and thousands of times. I came away 
feeling good, just like you do after a hot bath. 

Well, I don’t know how it was, but anyway 
Wish and I started going to Father Maidment 
regularly every Saturday. He just somehow 
seemed to be able to see around the corner, and 
what he’d say to you, you’d see that it hit the 
bull’s eye every time. Wish said he felt the same 
way, too. 

But all Father’s urging about helping the boys 
out of purgatory failed to score on me till last 
All Souls’ Day. I got the date down cold. It 
was November the second, and a Tuesday, and 
I had a date with Wish to go to the movies till 
the five-thirty, and then I had to meet Dad and 
Mother at Broad Street Station. 

But of course old Wish got jugged for getting 
caught shooting a spitball in Algebra, and I was 
hanging around waiting for him to get out. There 
were about thirteen of us fellows in the yard— 
gee! I never saw the connection with that number 
before—and we were practicing kickoff. The ball 


A TASTE OF JUG 


213 


was the one Cousin Bookie had given me last 
birthday. 

It was my kick, and I didn’t mean to at all, 
but my toe sort of connected with that little pig¬ 
skin. And, oh, boy, it was a beaut! In a regular 
game it would have been good almost to the goal 
posts easily, but not in that peanut-sized yard we 
have. 

That old egg headed high for the top floor of 
the Faculty Building, and I was saying, 4 4 Good 
night! Any of those panes will cost me three 
bucks if it costs a cent,” when the little old ball 
seemed to turn in midair. At the time I thought 
a wind swept around the corner of the building, 
but later when what happened, I knew different. 
That football was stopped and directed right! 
And I’ll bet you, too. The last I saw of it, it 
was making a perfect score through the open top 
of a window on the fourth floor. 

Gee! I never knew how much I liked Bookie’s 
football till I saw it disappear. So I told Boots 
Almond, who was a Gesu boy and knew the 
Fathers’ Building, to go get it and I would let him 
have some kicks out of it. But Boots said he 
would get all he wanted if the Brother caught 
him up there where it was forbidden. And no¬ 
body else wanted to go, either. For the Fathers 
have signs placed on all entrances, which say 
“Cloister,” and that’s polite for “Keep Out, 
Especially Ladies and Boys.” 

But I wasn’t going to lose anything Bookie had 
given me, without a struggle, so I said, “Aw, you 
fellows are a bunch of quitters. If Gosnell gets 
out of jug before I come back, you tell him to 


214 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


hang around.’’ And then I asked how to get up 
there. 

So I went along that place the altar boys call 
Palm Beach. That’s a long glassy corridor 
alongside the church, where the Brother, who has 
charge or something, keeps his palms and other 
green stuff to water them. 

It was nice and damp and hot-housey in there, 
but lucky for me there was no one in the offing. 
For if there had been, I know where I’d have 
gone, and pretty quick, too! Believe me! 

At the end there is a dark, crooked, crazy pas¬ 
sage that seems to be changing its mind all the 
time. I know, ’cause I opened a door ahead and 
almost stepped out onto the green carpet that is 
in the sanctuary of the Gesu. There on the high 
altar was the Brother fixing candles, and you bet 
I shut that door softly and beat it through that 
dark zig-zag. 

Then I came out into yellow light and I knew 
I was in the Faculty Building itself; and there 
to the left, just as Boots had told me, was one 
of those patent elevators. You know the kind. 
Not like in an office building, with a coon running 
it, but one of those trained ones that come when¬ 
ever you press the button. 

I did that, and next I knew the old elevator 
needed oiling or something, for it came buzzing 
down, making more noise than Bookie and I used 
to when the Phillies tied the score in the ninth. 
Well, I had to get up four floors; so when the 
lights showed the elevator, I opened the glass 
door, then the criss-cross one that folds up like 
a fan or something, and got in. 


A TASTE OF JUG 


Zi.b 


Boots Almond had put me wise to switching 
out the light so as nobody would see me passing 
the floors; so I punched the right buttons. 

“Fourth floor, athletic goods, especially foot¬ 
balls,” I murmured to myself as the old bird 
stopped humming. Safety first! I crouched down 
and listened, but it was still as still. Then I 
quickly got out into the long white corridor. 

I remembered it was the end room to the right 
I wanted, and by this time I was feeling like I 
wanted to get down to Broad Street Station and 
wait there for Mother. You know how it is. 
Believe me, I’d never make a good burglar. 

But I crept down that No Boy’s Land like 
Elizabeth—she’s our cat—after a sparrow, and 
I didn’t make any more noise, either. All the 
doors were shut, and over each was a sign saying 
the name of the one who lived there. I walked 
quieter. 

At the end room the door was open, and it was 
still as daylight in there. I looked in. There 
was a picture of Our Lord in the Temple with 
all those bearded Doctors, over the bed, and in 
front of that bed a tiny strip of carpet no bigger 
than on the end of a spring-board. And on the 
desk—it was one of those plain polished-top ones, 
the color of a tomcat that’s yellow—were a row 
of books and some papers under a little statue of 
Our Lord as a boy. Then there were a couple 
of chairs, and in one corner was one of those 
kneeling things. You know; they have a Frenchy 
kind of a name—“Pray Here” or something like 
that. On it was folded that purple strip the priest 
wears when you go to confession to him, and 



216 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


above it was a cheap crucifix cross. I got a better 
one in my room that Aunt Polly gave me. That 
was about all the movables. 

But gee! Neat! It wasn’t a bit like my den 
at home, except after Nora cleans it up Wednes¬ 
days before I come in. 

But I didn’t see any trace of that football. 
Then I did what Caesar did in Roman history— 
we are having that now. I crossed the Rubrics 
and went into that room to give it a close-up. 

There underneath the desk, where you put your 
feet, was old Bookie’s ball, looking as comfortable 
as a big chocolate Easter egg in a doghouse. I 
hugged it and was making a quick getaway, when 
I heard somebody’s step louder down the cor¬ 
ridor. 

Good night! I thought of under the bed, but 
that was less invisible than Billie Penn on top 
of City Hall Tower at two p. m. on a sunny after¬ 
noon. Then I noticed a door in the wall. I beat 
a bullet to that door. 

Going in I caught a glimpse of black clothes 
hung on hooks, and directly behind me an enam¬ 
eled washstand with a small mirror hanging over 
it. I bet two bits, if you had looked in that look¬ 
ing-glass then, you could have seen my hair 
standing up straight as Elizabeth’s when she is 
talking back to a strange dog—but not for the 
same reason. 

Whoever owned those footsteps was in the room 
now. I was listening if he would talk to himself, 
so as I could know who it was. If it had been 
one like Father Maidment, whom I knew well, 
why, I’d have taken a chance and come out. Then 


A TASTE OF JUG 


217 


I kicked myself for not having rubbered up at 
the name on the door when I had the chance. 

I heard him cough twice, like Wish does in class 
when he wants to get Mister’s goat, and then he 
went over and shut the window. I felt more 
trapped, and for better security I snuggled in 
back of those hanging clothes and kept Bookie’s 
football in the crook of my arm just like I was 
going down the field. And it was a mighty lucky 
thing I did, too—I mean get back of those clothes 
—for all at once that closet door opened sud¬ 
denly. 

Did I keep still? Oh, no! Bookie’s football 
didn’t make any more noise than I did. I bet my 
mug must have looked like a rat’s does when you 
find him in the trap, and I felt as seasick then as 
I did once in a squall off The Shore when Bookie 
couldn’t get the motor to work. But my motor 
was working like sixty and I had to shut my 
lips tight to keep from losing my old heart. Beat! 
Gee! 

The Father took a wash-up and I could have 
been polite and handed him the soap and towels, 
but I didn’t. Then that soap slipped, as I 
thought, out of his hand, and it hit the ankle of 
my tan shoes. But—good old soap—it caromed 
off the cushion to the other side. 

Well, Father got the soap, and I heard him 
making funny noises in his throat. Honestly, it 
sounded like he was half laughing. Then he 
brushed his hair for a long time before the mirror 
and went out into the room, and I took a long 
breath, just like I do when I come up from a 
deep dive. 


218 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


I figured that he would go out, and as soon as 
the coast was clear little old me’d follow in 
Father’s footsteps. He did start for the door. 
Then I heard him stop, come nearer, and the next 
second I heard the click of the lock on the closet 
door. 

Then it was awful still in the room. The only 
sound, me thinking. 

S. A. G. means something else on an envelope, 
but it just spells what I did. And I didn’t stop 
till I was squatted on the floor, the football in 
my lap. 

At first I thought of yelling, but I soon canned 
that crazy idea when I remembered where I was, 
and then I thought some of the fellows would 
surely come, looking me up, and get me out. 
Boots and the other Gesu boys knew where I had 
gone, and if I didn’t come back they’d come to 
know why. 

But after what seemed like all night I gave that 
idea up. Still I kind of hoped that Wish Gosnell, 
my pal, would do something to get me out. But 
nothing doing. 

Then I thought of Dad and Mother coming on 
the five-thirty, and I hadn’t seen them since they 
went out to The Coast in September, and I wanted 
to see them the worst way. 

Finally I got up and pushed that door. But 
it had more muscle than I have yet, and all my 
pushing did was to upset the soap dish. And 
then, groping after it in that ink, I poked my 
port lamp into a corner of the washstand, which 
must have reached out to get me; and it did, 
good. Believe me! 


A TASTE OF JUG 


219 


Then I sat down again, and I must have been 
dog-tired or something, for I don’t remember 
much. And when I half woke up it seemed late 
as next week; and, take it from me, they must 
have turned the steam on or something in that 
closet. 

I stuck out my hand and it touched what was 
soft and hard and went away. Scared? Oh, no! 
Then I remembered it must be Bookie’s football, 
and I reached out with my foot and hooked it 
and I didn’t feel so lonesome. 

That pigskin got me thinking of Bookie, and 
it was about then that the light struck me. Gee! 
It blazed up so that I could almost see things in 
that dark closet. And I said out loud, “Say, 
Bookie, old man, we are in sort of the same 
canoe.” 

But then I thought how Cousin Bookie had died 
in August, and here it was sometime in November 
—it felt and sounded like the night before Christ¬ 
mas. And except for hearing his Funeral Mass 
and going to Communion at it, I had hardly done 
a single thing to release my cousin. And he was 
a good chum of mine, too. 

I had forgotten him in purgatory like he never 
was, and I got afraid I was going to be forgotten 
here in this Calcutta hole just the same. Even 
my chum Wish Gosnell must have gone to the 
movies with another fellow. And I got lonelier 
and lonelier. Maybe part of that was because I 
hadn’t had much lunch, for Wish and I were go¬ 
ing to have eats at the Automatic before we went 
to the Chaplinia. 

And I guess finally I got a line on how those 


220 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


boys must feel there in the junior division of 
purgatory. They want to get out, and they think 
of the good times on high, and they think over 
the names of all their chums who might easily 
get them out by praying open the door, and they 
never do. 

Then and there I made old Bookie a definite 
promise, and I said: ‘‘Help me, cousin, help!” 
The same words I had said in the waves that last 
day off Yentnor. 

And I added, ‘ 1 Bookie, there is no camouflage 
about this. You get me out of this inkwell and 
I’ll have a Mass said for you. And what’s more, 
I will go to Communion for you twice each week 
this month, Sundays and Thursdays. I’ll do this, 
Bookie, and more if you will please have that door 
opened.” 

Then I thought I’d try the old door once more, 
and I got up stiff and fingered my way and got 
braced against the washstand to start a drive. 

I touched the door gently, as a starter—and 
it opened like it wasn’t ever locked! 

There was the same neat room, same as I had 
seen it a week ago, and the light was shining in 
awful bright. I blinked. 

And then I sprinted. Down that corridor, down 
every third step. No humming elevator for me! 
Through that crooked passage, and I never 
stopped putting space between me and that de¬ 
tention camp till I was in Palm Beach. 

There I put Bookie’s football down and looked 
at my wrist watch. It was just four forty-five, 
but I didn’t know whether it was today or to- 


A TASTE OF JUG 


221 


morrow. If I had asked my stomach it would 
have said next week sure. 

But along came Mr. Albright and he said, 
4 ‘Why, what are you doing? Just out of jug?” 

And I said, “I’ll say so, Mister.” 

Then I asked him what day it was, and he 
said, “Why, this is Tuesday, and tomorrow will 
be Wednesday, I think, but I am not sure.” 

And I said “Thanks” and “Good-by.” I 
thought “Good night! Have I been stuck there 
only two hours? Gee, I wonder how time must 
feel to Bookie.” 

Then I took the car and was just in time to 
meet Dad and Mother at the station. Mother said 
afterwards it was worth going away two months 
to get that kind of a welcome I gave them. That 
night at home I struck Dad for two dollars ad¬ 
vance on my next allowance. He came across, 
and the next day I called for Father Maidment. 

He came down to the parlor in a few minutes, 
and as soon as he looked at me he looked at my 
tan shoes. I thought he was going to say they 
needed the brush which was true, but he just half 
smiled, like he was placing them. 

I told him at once I wanted Mass said twice 
for Cousin Bookie Edwin, and then I told him 
what I’ve been telling you, and he kept smiling 
that “Over There” smile of his. He listened, 
saying nothing till I had finished about the funny 
way the door came open. Then he said: 

“Surely I’ll say Mass tomorrow and Friday 
for Bookie. Would you care to serve and receive 
Holy Communion?” 

And I said, “Father, you bet!” 


222 


IN GOD'S COUNTRY 


Then he looked at my shoes again and he said 
something that made me sit down hard. 

He said, smiling all the time: 

“I thought I recognized those tans yesterday. 
That's why I threw a cake of soap at them, 
Victor. And when I came back later, rather re¬ 
morsefully, lo, I found their owner dreaming 
peacefully, and I left my closet door unlocked." 

Gee! If this youth but knew it was his room, 
he'd have picked up and handed back that soap 
politely. Then I might never have tasted till I 
got there how it feels to be interned somewhere 
in purgatory. 

But my dead cousin Bookie and those like him 
can’t say any more that I don't help them aloft. 
Believe me, I learned complete in one lesson. 


THE SMALL ANGEL 

I N THE cool shadows that the late afternoon 
slants upon the Road from Purgatory play 
the Small Angels. True, there are gayer play¬ 
grounds within the resplendent City. But, with 
the common consent of all Heaven, this space to 
the left of the towering golden arch, by which 
every released soul must pass, is reserved for 
those^children whose mothers have yet to come. 

There in the pleasant shades multitudes of 
these Bright Ones, whom no man can number, 
dart hither and thither in their gay games, while 
ever and anon one will stop short in the middle 
of a happy romp and gaze searchingly at a face 
in the passing crowd. There will either be the 
breath of a sigh and the Small Angel is back 
at play again, or there will be a moment of un¬ 
believing recognition, then the glad cry, “Oh, my 
mother!” goes up, and right there, obstructing 
the whole Road from Purgatory, a little form 
will be folded in a tight embrace, and the watch¬ 
ing Small Angels will resume their games, know¬ 
ing that one of their companions will never care 
to play again in the shadows of the ramparts. 

Among this splendid throng of Small Angels 
that laughed and ran just outside the sparkling 

223 


224 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


walls was little Francis. He had played there 
now for close on to twelve years, and that length 
of waiting seemed tremendously long. He could 
recall—he did not know how many—chums of his 
who had broken oft their sports and led a mother 
under the great golden arch, and the longing to 
enjoy that deferred pleasure made him drop out 
of the present game and travel down the road 
a bit. 

Seated there motionless above the wayside, he 
viewed the last stretch of the Road from Purga¬ 
tory. As far as he could peer, down to the dim 
edge of the blue horizon, flowed an endless stream 
of souls in his direction. Soon, with chin cupped 
in chubby hand, he fell to scanning the faces and 
noting the last trace of Purgatory’s anguish 
vanish as each new Blessed was transfixed by the 
first sight of the great gateway and the glimmer¬ 
ing promise beyond. 

Francis must have been there apart many mo¬ 
ments, thrilled with the contagious joy of this 
contemplation; forgetful of the companions that 
chased and frolicked in the shadows; forgetful 
momentarily of the wish that had made him break 
away from them, when he became aware that he 
was no longer alone in his nook. Another and 
a larger Bright Spirit was at his side, and 
Francis, without looking up, knew who it was. 

“Why are you not romping with the Small 
Angels, Francis?” asked the Guardian, eying the 
crumpled figure. “Too old to play with the Gay 
Ones?” 

The nearest thing to a look of sadness came 


THE SMALL ANGEL 


225 


over the Small Angel’s countenance as he sat, 
wing to wing, alongside his mother’s Guardian, 
and were it possible for a Small Angel to weep, 
the throng in the road might have been then and 
there shaken in all their preconceived notions of 
angelic ways; but before that unheard-of event 
had a chance to happen, the sympathetic Guard¬ 
ian had opened his gleaming wing and enfolded 
the nearly-lonely lad. 

“ I know, dearie. Waiting to meet her does 
seem long sometimes, doesn’t it?” 

From the white depths came no sound, but the 
Guardian felt soft celestial curls nodding against 
his side. 

“Well, it isn’t really so long—a little while 
more, maybe much shorter than you ever sus¬ 
pected, Bright One, and then—” the Guardian 
stooped low to whisper, “all eternity, Francie, 
all eternity, and never to be parted while God is 
God!” 

The Small Angel sat erect at the thought and 
his blue eyes sparkled as only eyes accustomed 
to the Beatific Vision can, and in that look the 
Guardian drank ample recompense for his kindly 
words. 

* ‘ Oh, Guardian! I know it will soon be for all 
eternity, but I forget sometimes and then I want 
‘all eternity’ for her to start right away. Now!” 

“What!” cried the angel of his mother, draw¬ 
ing away and pretending to be horrified. “You 
wish my charge to die! Most children, I always 
heard, wanted their mothers to live and—” 

“And that’s what I want my mother to do. I 
have so many places to show her and, oh, so many 


226 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


things to tell her. Just think, Guardian, it’s 
twelve long years since we’ve met, and that’s a 
long, long while for a small chap.” 

“Chap!” corrected the Guardian playfully. 
“Is that the proper word for a Small Angel?” 

“Well, then, for a small angel . It’s a mighty 
long while.” 

The Small Angel gazed at the people in the 
road, then suddenly resumed: 

“Why, I don’t even know whether I resemble 
her or father! Which do I look like, Guardian?” 

Francis stood up and, back to the crowded Road 
from Purgatory, faced the smiling Guardian. He 
remained erect and serious while the inspection 
was taking place. The Guardian’s smile deepened 
as his glance rested on the tips of the bright 
sandals, slightly tarnished from a late game; then 
up the chubby figure, clothed in shimmering blue 
and white, and up to the glowing face, crowned 
with its golden sunshine. Innocence and wisdom 
shone forth, and the Guardian’s thoughts leaped 
back to the Garden at Nazareth and the face of 
the Boy who had walked there. 

“Which, Guardian?” cried Francis again, see¬ 
ing his companion had grown wistfully abstracted. 

‘ 4 Which of them would you wish to resemble ? ’ ’ 

“Now, that’s not the question I asked you, 
Guardian.” Then solemnly, “You know you 
should always answer one question before asking 
another. ’ ’ 

The larger angel took his rebuke in silence, and 
waited for the Small Angel to speak again. 

“I want to ask you something, Guardian. Did 
it ever, ever happen in Heaven that one of us,” 


THE SMALL ANGEL 


227 


Francis pointed to the players in the pleasant 
shadows, whose shonts came faint as echoes from 
distant rocks , 4 ‘ that one of ns was allowed to take 
the place of his mother’s angel for a time—did 
that ever happen, do you know ?’ 9 

“I’ve heard of cases,” gravely replied the 
Guardian, “but they were very rare, and there 
was some very special reason for them. But, 
Small Angel, have you been thinking of relieving 
me?” 

The Small Angel sat down and began very con¬ 
fidentially : 

“Now, Guardian, you know that, after my own 
angel, I like you best of all angels, don’t you?” 

“I thought I heard a few moments ago,” re¬ 
marked the other softly, “that one question 
should always be answered before—” 

“Don’t you know that, Guardian?” went on 
Francis, laying his hand on the larger angel’s 
knee, “And that you always did anything I ever 
asked? Now, Guardian, here’s what I was think¬ 
ing before you came. My mother’s birthday, is 
to-morrow. You needn’t look surprised, because 
I know that and lots more that you never sus¬ 
pect. Now, Guardian most dear, I want you to 
get me permission. I know just how to act and 
what to whisper—you’ve told me often enough 
what the duties of a Guardian Angel are—and 
you can take a rest all to-morrow. Won’t you 
please do this for me, Guardian, and in return— 
oh, I’ll do whatever you wish?” 

The Guardian had been listening attentively to 


228 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


the Small Angel’s request, but his reply was most 
irrelevant. 

u So a certain Small Angel, after ‘ twelve long 
years,’ knows lots more than I even suspect. He 
knows, for instance, that I ceased to be an active 
Guardian last evening, when—” 

1 ‘ 0 Guardian, what did you do! ’ ’ 

It was a horrified Small Angel that started 
back. 

44 No; I wasn’t guilty of any negligence. But 
I was just thinking that some small people don’t 
suspect how little they really do know of what 
should interest them very much. So you’re not 
contented with being a Small Angel, but you must 
aspire to the choir of Guardians and plot out 
schemes for displacing a faithful old Guardian 
from a position he has held for years and—” 

44 You know I don’t mean that. Just for one 
day, her birthday. I’ll take the best of care of 
her.” 

“And what reason could I bring before the 
Throne to have this rare favor granted ? A Small 
Angel is dissatisfied with all his happiness?” 

“No, no; that’s not so and you know it, Guard¬ 
ian. But say a little boy wants to see and be 
near his mother for just one day, and He will 
understand and grant the permission.” 

“But suppose it wasn’t necessary to ask that.” 

The Small Angel looked doubtfully at the larger 
angel. 

“Suppose, now, I came to let you meet mother 
and see her for more than ‘just one day.’ ” 

“What! Guardian, did you get leave to take 
me back to earth with you?” 


THE SMALL ANGEL 


229 


“I never said that. How some Small Angels 
jump at the most reckless conclusions! What I 
was going to remark before I was interrupted—” 
the Small Angel hung his head—“was that I had 
come to the outer playgrounds to invite Francis 
for a stroll,’’ and he nodded toward the green 
lands that lined the distant Road from Purga¬ 
tory. “Being an ex-Guardian, of course, one has 
much leisure. Ready ?” 

“Oh, Guardian, what are you saying? I don’t 
understand your talk. If you’re not, then who 
is my mother’s Guardian Angel?” It was a 
much-worried Small Angel that got up. 

The two dropped down from the ledge and over 
to the right of the road. On that side traveled 
very few: mostly Guardian Angels hurrying 
along to earth or Purgatory, and now and then 
a fair Saint on his way to visit a client. Natu¬ 
rally all the heavy traffic was on the left and 
streaming toward the arch. 

They came to the first turn, which really is no 
turn at all, but just a jog in the road. Then they 
entered on a stretch of highway unfamiliar to 
the Small Angel. The rich greenery of graceful 
trees and the gay flowers, a tumult of tones that 
made the road, as it neared Paradise, the most 
beautiful spot outside the ramparts, had changed. 
Francis noticed now that the trees of the woods 
had given way to shrubs and stood whole dis¬ 
tances apart, and the flowers grew scattered and 
sombre-hued. 

It was a drear landscape that the two looked 


230 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


upon, and it should have been, for they were near¬ 
ing the confines. 

Below the second turn, where the road bends 
sharply to the east, stands a mass of gray rock, 
and here the Guardian drew the Small Angel 
aside. 

“You’re to rest, Francis, while I go down the 
road awhile. Now can I be sure you won’t re¬ 
turn to the playgrounds without me?” 

4 4 Why, Guardian! Certainly, ’’ assured Francis. 

4 ‘Quite sure you won’t forget all about your 
promise to return with me, when we come back?” 
persisted the Guardian. “Well, then, we’ll see!” 
And he was off. 

The Small Angel seated himself, wondering 
why his mother’s angel had seemed to doubt him. 
Then he fell again to watching the crowd that 
surged silently by. Several times he bobbed his 
curls to Guardians of his acquaintance who al¬ 
ways smiled back, and once he waved his hand 
encouragingly to a boy of his own size, who 
looked rather bewildered. Then he sprang to at¬ 
tention, as a Saint and his escort of new Blessed 
drew near, for he recognized his patron, the 
mighty Xavier. The kindly-faced Saint returned 
the salute of the Small Angel and called across 
the wayside: 

“All alone, namesake? Haven’t you strayed 
far to-day?” 

“I’m waiting for mother’s Guardian, sir. He 
told me to. ’ ’ And the great Francis nodded know¬ 
ingly, as he led his newly-released clients along. 

Francis thought of the day, twelve years ago, 


231 


THE SMALL ANGEL 

when the same gracious Saint Francis had given 
him, a freshly-arrived celestial baby, such a warm 
embrace, and had lifted him up to the waiting 
arms of Mother Mary that she might present him, 
and thinking thus on the kindness of his patron, 
the Small Angel looked across the road. 

There was a gap in the passing crowd and in 
advance of the next group came two. Francis 
from his nook saw that they were deep in con¬ 
versation, their faces hidden. Abreast of him 
they halted, and Francis started. One, the smil¬ 
ing one, was pointing directly at the astonished 
Small Angel, and the other looked up for the first 
time. 

“Why! Guardian—” but Francis forgot to 
finish his sentence. 

A trailing streak of blue and white flung itself 
into the outstretched arms, and the glad cry of 
eternal reunion, ‘0 my mother,’ that is usually 
heard just outside of the golden arch, that after¬ 
noon went up from the bleak neighborhood of the 
second turn. 

At once a tactful Guardian started home in ad¬ 
vance, and he only stopped once, and that was 
to tell the star-eyed children, playing in the cool 
shadows of the ramparts not to expect Francis 
to join in their games again, for Francis’ mother 
had come. 


UNDER THE jEGIS 


T HE trees that in the green months made “The 
Bay” desirable, and “Mariner’s Place” its 
shadiest lane, stood out bleak and black in the 
frosty air. A light fall of snow camouflaged the 
walks and shrubs and crunched sharply under the 
postman’s feet. He bore the sack of Santa Claus, 
but his grin was the grin of old King Coal, as he 
turned in at the Shieldeds’ gate. 

Pearly-haired Mrs. Shielded, standing at the 
glassed veranda door, one hand lifting aside the 
flag with the three blue stars, was unconsciously 
impersonating a current magazine cover. Then 
she flagrantly violated all the “Nine Rules for 
the Prevention of Pneumonia” as she anxiously 
stepped out to meet the letter man. 

With a “Merry Christmas, ma’am,” he handed 
her five envelopes. One glance, and she instinc¬ 
tively clutched them to her bosom. Very dis¬ 
tractedly she returned his greetings and started 
to retire. Then, recollecting, “Oh, Mr. Piper!” 
she turned and reached him a white envelope that 
had been stuck handy to the door. He rightly 
suspected it contained a Yankee scrap of paper, 
worth its face-value the world over. She cut his 
thanks, but, wise postman as he was, he took no 
offence, knowing the ways of mothers on the ar¬ 
rival of children’s mail. 

232 


UNDER THE iEGIS 


233 


Within the home, Mr. Shielded hastened to obey 
the imperative summons to the sitting room. 

“I thought the mocker was out and endanger¬ 
ing your precious canaries again, Molly/’ he be¬ 
gan, but seeing what he saw in her hands, he 
promptly sat down to listen. Mrs. Shielded was 
fumbling over the inscriptions on the five enve¬ 
lopes, and she murmured: 

“Ted, dear, isn’t the Babe good! At Midnight 
Mass I thought it was going to be a lonely day 
for the two of us, and, look! One from each of 
them—Jack, Theresa, Francie, Mary Magdalene 
(His Heart be honored for ever and ever!), and 
Teddy!” Then hungrily: “Oh! which shall I 
start with?” 

“You might try the uppermost,” said Mr. 
Shielded dryly. 

And eventually Mother Shielded did. 

“The Chaplain came next day. He’s a Holy 
Cross chap. He’s handsome as he’s active, and 
before he shoved off, he had my slate cleaned up. 
Then he spread the Oils on my members and I 
got a feeling, Mama, that I didn’t mind a bit 
whether I rated a funeral or a furlough. I sort 
of felt like a vessel swinging at easy anchor at 
slack water. Then your prayers, plus Theresa’s, 
I bet, set the tide flowing east again. 

“Last week I was discharged from hospital, 
and, believe me, the only disastrous effects this 
bird has contracted from double flu-pneumonia 
has been a first-class, acute-” 

Mrs. Shielded looked up from the sheet to in¬ 
quire ; 




234 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


“Ted, how do you spell ‘acute’? Francie has 
two ‘c’s’ in it here.” 

“Well, he’s over-generous then, but go on, 
Molly, with the letter,” said her husband. 

“—a first-class, accute, chronic appetite. The 
chow is great at Great Lakes, I’ll tell the world. 
But little old home cooking is what this gob 
craves. So, forget Hoover; bake up a stack of 
pies—mince, you know me, Ma!—save a whole 
and an half turkey, white and black meat, legs 
and gizzard, for I rate a furlough and I should 
go ashore at Grand Central at 2:34 on the after¬ 
noon of the twenty-fifth. That’ll put me in your 
arms before eight bells. So, hold Christmas din¬ 
ner, for ‘I have a rendezvous with Eats’—and 
you two!” 

Mrs. Shielded gave a little scream as the truth 
struck her. 

“Why! Ted, Francie’ll be here this evening, 
and—” 

“Don’t worry. There’s enough in the kitchen 
to feed eight,” said Mr. Shielded, but even he 
looked happier as he added: “Go on, Molly. 
What have the others to say?” 

.u. -v, ^ 

■7v* *7v* *5r tt vy* tt 

Mother Shielded turned to the last page of the 
creamy white stationery and continued reading: 

“And I wish, darling Mother, and Father too, 
both of you, the same measure of joy that is mine 
this holy season. I’d be an ungrateful daughter 
not to acknowledge the debt I owe to you, dears. 
So when the Infant Jesus comes to His little 
spouse at Midnight Mass, I’m going to say: 


UNDER THE MGIS 


235 


“ ‘You Precious Child, please bless Father and 
Mother, once for the holy example they have ever 
given their little girl; bless ’em twice, for the 
love they have lavished on me; and, ah! bless 
’em again and again, because of their generosity 
in letting me consecrate my days to Thy service.’ 

“So, Merry Christmas, dearies, and a whole 
row of crosses; the evens for you, Mother, and 
the odds for Daddy—so like him! 

“From Theresa, R.S.H.” 

Mother Shielded got up and before “Daddy” 
realized what was happening, she had translated 
an odd number of those symbolic crosses into 
actualities^ 

Then she cut open the next envelope. Out came 

writing paper, that had “Knights of Columbus. 

War Activities. On Active Service.” printed in 

blue on the top of each sheet. The handwriting 

was large and hasty. 

****** 

“Now that I’ve been dumping ‘ash cans’ for 
six months, I can qualify for the Street Cleaning 
Department. For, believe me, after passing un¬ 
scathed through all the dangers of these zigzag 
waters; doing knight errant stuff for abused lady 
transports and tramps; and, in general, being 
Johnnie-on-the-spot when Fritzie broke surface, 
the perils of New York’s streets will seem pic- 
nicky alongside this late life. 

“We’ve been ordered home, and this gunner’s 
mate will be ‘jolly glad’—as they say at our 
Plymouth base—to feast his optics on the Large 
Lady who holds the Torch over Gotham’s bay, 


236 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


for that will mean, lie’s nearing the small lady 
who’s holding this sheet. Whom do I mean? 
4 Ask Dad. He knows.’ Won’t I have some things 
to tell you! Oh, no! 

‘ ‘ My buddies say there’s some charm about me, 
I don’t mean facially. Any old cracked mirror 
will tell that, but physically. I can’t get sick or 
seasick; even the flu shied off from me! That 
time Fritz shelled us and got poor Bobbie Shaw, 
I was standing six feet away. Once, a depth 
bomb exploded too prematurely and almost blew 
the stern out of us, and I had been sent on a 
message to the bridge five minutes before! Our 
casualties were eleven. And then again, one 
peach of a night for murder, when I was on look¬ 
out forward, thirty-eight per cent of the open 
Atlantic came aboard, and I was washed away, 
and almost before I knew it, the next submarine 
chaser in the fleet picked me up. No wonder my 
buddies call me 4 Jack o’ Luck,’ and swear I’ll 
never rate any golden ‘V’ on my right sleeve!” 

Mrs. Shielded laid down the pages to repeat: 
“0 Heart of Jesus, how good Thou hast been to 
our Jack!” And the silent father nodded ap¬ 
proval. 

Some minutes later the mother was opening the 
fourth letter. That also had “Sailor’s Mail” 
written in the upper right hand corner. 

“Well, it’s all over, Mother of mine, but those 
last days! oh boy! Didn’t we put the fear of 
the Yanks into the Huns! There’s a bird here 
in our gun crew, who once copped the mathema¬ 
tics prizes at Georgetown, and he’s figured out 


UNDER THE .EGIS 


237 


how many tons an hour we were contributing to 
the tout ensemble . I’ll say that if the Jerries 
hadn’t signed Foch’s little old sixty-nine—or 
whatever number they were—articles, Nov. 11th, 
our pop guns would have had to be withdrawn 
to be rebored next day. 

“Of course they dropped their visiting cards 
promiscuous-like, but they never touched Teddy. 
With ‘two down in the ninth,’ so to speak—that 
was on Nov. 10th—I was lucky enough to pull 
some hero stuff. We needed shells and there was 
a bit of a field had to be crossed. They sent two 
poor fellows and—well, I volunteered. 

“One of our lynx-eyed Allies saw the whole 
show, and I got cited and now I’ve got to wear 
a bronze thing they call a croix de guerre.” 

Mr. Theodore Shielded, Senior, straightened up 
in his chair, and instinctively his eye turned to 
a certain photograph. His hand went up and 
down in a snappy naval salute. 

*Jr "Jv* w 'TV* *7V* 

A cloud was passing over Mother Shielded’s 
face as she carefully opened the last envelope. 
The fashionable sheets crinkled crisply and she 
caught a glimpse of the monogram in gold at the 
top of each page. She read the letter through 
in silence, her husband sitting patiently by. Then, 
without a word, she passed a section of the letter 
across to him and he read: 

“I’ve caused you and Daddy heart anguish 
enough. I’ve been miserable, but, thank God, His 
love has conquered. Jim consented, and together 
we sought a priest here in Los Angeles, Father 
Lowndes. He knows the Gilbreths and the Henry 




238 


IN GOD’S COUNTRY 


Hayeses quite well. He has fixed our marriage 
up. Agnes and Baby have been baptized. And 
Jim (I can hardly realize it!) Jim has placed 
himself in Father Lowndes’s hands to be in¬ 
structed. He will be received some time in Janu- 
ary. ... I’ve learnt money cannot replace peace 
of soul. If I had only been strong of heart, Jim 
would have come within the Fold long ago. You 
well named me. But like my namesake, I’ve cried: 
‘Rabboni!’ and, 0 Mother, this Christmas will 
be the happiest I have known in five years. 

‘ i Pray always for 

“Your Mary Magdalene.” 
###### 

Mother Shielded had come around the table 
while her husband was reading, and when he had 
finished, she said gently: 

“Ted, look, dear.” 

And she pointed to the framed picture that 
hung on the wall above the boys’ photographs. 

Mr. Shielded remembered the night a few years 
ago, when all, by pen or proxy, had signed the 
picture. 

Then ever so softly, the mother repeated the 
words that were printed below that Face and 
Pierced Hands and Thorn-girded Heart. 

11 We consecrate to Thee the trials and joys of 
our family , and we beseech Thee to your out Thy 
best blessings on all its members, absent and 
present.” 

There was more printed beneath the picture, 
but Mother Shielded could not go on. And it was 
doubtful whether Father Shielded could either. 


END OF PART I 


Part II 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


THE SURE AND TRULY GATEWAY 


O NCE when Father Francis of Xavier lived 
below the stars, the affairs of God carried 
him to Hassein. As he did step from the tail- 
sailed dhow onto the beach of Bassein, there came 
through the massive Sea Gate, the Captain Gen¬ 
eral, swarthy and stately and bejeweled, and there 
came his staff, even more swarthy and stately 
and bejeweled than their Captain General, and 
the Portugese citizenry, and brown lakhs of the 
native Marathi folk. 

They all stood about the beach to do honor to 
Father Francis, for all men knew that where the 
Great Father went, there came the favor of God. 

The very magnificent Captain General with 
many a flourish and many a compliment began 
goldenly. He said in pretty words how he and 
the people of Bassein would eternally be grateful 
for this visit, and he acclaimed Father Francis, 
the Friend of God and Apostle, to his face. 

This the lowly Father Francis thought exceed- 

239 




240 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


ingly cruel, and he listened like an embarrassed 
page to the Captain General’s flowers of words. 

Many other pretty things said the Captain 
General there in the sun on the sands of the 
beach, and all the while Father Francis kept his 
eyes lowly. But not so lowly as not to see a 
certain brown native lad, who edged as closely 
by as it were seemly a pagan lad should stand 
to a Saint. 

He had earrings in his ears and an anklet of 
copper and a ring on his little big toe, but he 
was as to clothing fairly sky-clad. Moreover, he 
was such a lad, that standing erect, his shaven 
head would be on a level with Father Francis’ 
heart, and Father Francis was never a tall man. 
Yet very erect and eager he stood there in the 
easting rays, and once when Father Francis did 
fumble, embarrassed, with his rude cross and drop 
it, out sprang this brown lad to restore it. 

Afterward, he did catch Father Francis’ azure 
eyes resting on him kindly—for Father Francis’ 
eyes were always alert to notice a poor pagan 
lad—and he did make his salaams deeply and re¬ 
peatedly. Nay, even so noticeably that the Cap¬ 
tain General would have a gorgeous guard send 
him about his business forthwith, had not Father 
Francis signaled that the brown lad should be 
let be. 

Then the Captain General came to an end to 
his welcoming words, wishing publicly that he 
might go to God from the arms of Father Francis. 
For it was the pious belief of the Portuguese of 
the broad East that to die in those arms was an 
assurance of salvation. And prettily he called the 


THE SURE AND TRULY GATEWAY 241 


arms of Father Francis, “The Sure and Truly 
Gateway to Paradise.” 

Afterward, the Captain General and his spar¬ 
kling company did move, escorting Father Francis 
under the shadows of the towering Sea Gate—the 
silver bugles blew bravely—and up to the convent 
of the Fathers Augustinian, where it was cool- 
cloistered and seemly that Father Francis should 
stay out his visit to Bassein. 

Now that certain brown lad did fair lead the 
bright company, e’en till the Brother Porter of 
the convent Augustinian, who did often accuse 
himself in the refectory of being over testy, most 
emphatically warned him away. And he went 
puzzled, for he had before this seen the Captain 
General and all Bassein do honor to lordly visi¬ 
tors, when they had landed beyond the Sea Gate. 

Each of these Great Sahibs did wear silks of 
divers hue and much gold on their capes and gems 
that flashed back the sun. This Father Francis 
wore a long gown that was ancient and had been 
mended in places visible and his shoes were piti¬ 
ful and his only ornament was that rude cross, 
caught in his girdle. Yet it seemed certain that 
the Captain General, and the Portuguese, both of 
gentle birth and base, and the Christians of the 
natives had been more anxious to heap honors 
on this Father Francis than on all the other high 
visitors of the past. 

This puzzle teased the lad far into the evening 
and he did think over it deeply. As he fell asleep, 
he remembered pleasantly that the Great Father 
had looked at him kindly, when he did make 
salaams, and so he resolved—e’en as a boy will 


242 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


—that though all the guards and Brother Porters 
in Bassein barred the way, he would find early 
occasion to stand near Father Francis again. 
And his dreams that night were pleasant. 

Before the little green parrots of the palm tops 
began their daily warfare with the bold blue 
crows, this brown lad did leave behind his 
father’s hut and the strung-up nets—for his 
father and his brothers caught fish—and did be¬ 
take his shadow below the tall walls of Bassein. 

A few fishing dhows with their dark triangular 
sails hoisted were already slowly putting out to 
sea; the tired guards paced carelessly their al¬ 
lotted beats high on the walls, but naught else 
moved. Even the stout gates, bristling with their 
iron spikes, that in red days would bar a batter¬ 
ing elephant, were still closed and chained. 

Then it was, this brown lad saw the low side 
gate, that he and his fellow fisher lads called 
jokingly “the Monkey Gate,” saw it open and a 
Sahib come out onto the beach path. When the 
Sahib had come farther, beyond the great banian 
and the last tilted palm, the brown lad’s heart 
did give a great leap and then beat most increas¬ 
ingly. For the one coming was he, whom all 
Bassein had gone forth to honor. 

There was such a wholesome look on the face 
of Father Francis that fear fled the heart of this 
brown lad and he did stand bravely in the path’s 
center and make salaams. And Father Francis 
returned the salutation most courteously and 
said: 

“Did I not see this Master Salaams but yes- 


THE SURE AND TRULY GATEWAY 243 


terday evening, when a guard of gay plumage 
would have sent him forthwith?” 

And the brown lad admitted with ready delight 
that the Padre Sahib made no mistake. 

Then Father Francis did ask him his name and 
the names of his choice and did invite him to 
walk by his side. 

So they walked, having the still Arabian Sea, 
many-colored in the early light, on their right. 
And it was of a joy for the brown lad to listen 
to Father Francis and the pleasant way he did 
speak of wonders. 

Mostly he told the brown lad of the fair King¬ 
dom of his King. And when Father Francis 
spoke thus, his eyes were brown fire and his voice 
was oil poured out. All! his words were as oil 
poured out on the hot heart of this pagan lad, 
and they did enkindle therein a quick desire. This 
he did put into words and say, half afraid yet 
eager that the answer might be so: 

‘ 4 Great Sahib, might such a one as I, sailing 
away, enter this Kingdom and see thy King? I 
do desire it!” 

Then did the Father reply: 

“Ah! little Sambaji, it was that such as you 
might enter into this Kingdom that I did come 
across these many leagues. For the King of this 
Kingdom I do serve most gladly, and for that 
service I do desire only His love and His grace.” 

Here Father Francis did stop and look down 
full-face at the pagan lad, Sambaji. And pity such 
as softens the good shepherd’s eyes as he does 
follow the hard trail of a lost lamb, came first 
in Father Francis ’ countenance. But as he looked 


244 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


upon the pagan lad, pity brightened into content¬ 
ment—such peace as shines in the good shepherd’s 
eyes when he knows the lost will be safe. 

Then said Father Francis: 

“Chhokra,”—for so Sahibs address native lads 
—“Chhokra, it is permitted me to see that my 
King in His kindness will grant your wish. Yea; 
ere the little green parrots rest again.” 

And Father Francis’ face was fatherly, as he 
did make the Sign lightly on the upturned fore¬ 
head of the pagan lad. 

“Now run back to thy nets, little son, for I 
would speak with my King here in the silence of 
the shore.” 

So Sambaji, the brown lad, very gayly did take 
his dismissal from Father Francis. And the 
Saint paced slowly by the white breaking sea, 
meditating gratefully on this latest tender mercy 
that his King had let him vision. 

But quickly came the ardent sun over the walls 
and the tall palms and Father Francis did retrace 
his steps back to the Sea Gate, now swung wide 
—very straight stood the guards as he did pass 
them—and back to the convent of the Fathers 
Augustinian. 

Then came relief to the Brother Sacristan, who 
had laid out his best vestments for the Saint’s 
Mass, and had sought him vainly in cloister and 
compound for the hour past. 

All through the warmth of the day did Father 
Francis toil on his King’s affairs. He did go 
early to choose the site for St. Paul’s, the college 
he would found, pacing out the ample dimensions 
himself. But mostly he was in the convent, over- 


THE SURE AND TRULY GATEWAY 245 


much spoken by noble and merchant and soldier, 
and be did listen most Christlike, as each in 
turn poured out his sins and miseries. 

Then the Saint would speak the words of guid¬ 
ance and pardon, and soldier and merchant and 
noble would arise comforted and strong. 

When it was come evening again, but not dark, 
and the little green parrots were ceasing their 
shrill warfare and were hurrying overhead to 
their own palms, the Captain General did come, 
unattended, desirous of conversing with Father 
Francis about his soul’s estate. 

The Saint met him and said he had an urgent 
affair abroad, and invited the Captain General 
to walk there with him. 

So out of the convent of the Fathers A'ugus- 
tinian went the two, Father Francis and the Cap¬ 
tain General of Bassein. They passed the high, 
white palaces of the Portuguese—for Bassein was 
a goodly city, granting precedence only to Goa, 
the Golden—and all they met, lady and maid, 
guard and servant and white-frocked friar, did 
make way and bow low. They passed through 
the ample North Gate and by the palm-thatched 
bazaars, where every native, even the little jew¬ 
eled children, did make salaams to the Great 
Sahibs. 

And it was under the golden glow of a palm- 
roofed road, as they were coming close by the 
fishing village, that the Captain General in a 
break in the conversation did raise his eyes and 
see ahead a native lad, approaching. 

As they drew near, the native lad did look ex¬ 
pectant and then salaam deeply to Father 


246 


IN XAVIER LANDS' 


Francis. The Captain General did motion au¬ 
thoritatively to make room—for the jungle grew 
close on either side—and the lad did step back¬ 
ward obediently into thick bamboo shrub. At 
once, under his bare feet, a dark thing did rear 
and spread and flash forward. 

The Captain General saw the brown lad’s hand 
driven sharply against his slim body and the lad 
did utter the high cry of pain. 

What had struck did lower its hood and pour 
away. 

Then did Father Francis hasten his steps to 
the sinking lad and he did kneel and lay him 
gently against his own knee. 

They did see with quick glance that the poison 
had entered full and was already coursing toward 
the brown lad’s heart. 

Father Francis did speak as one having knowl¬ 
edge and authority as he bade the Captain 
General go to the closest hut and bring him with 
haste the “chatti” of water that stood there. 
Though it were not seemly a Captain General of 
proud Bassein should do a servant’s task, yet 
for Father Francis’s sake, he did go quickly. 

When he came, returning with the dripping 
earthen jar, he heard Father Francis saying: 

“And does my Master Salaams still desire to 
go avisiting my King and the Fair Delights of 
His Kingdom?” 

The brown lad did move his head affirmatively, 
for the cobra’s venom had all but run to the heart 
and the tongue could not move willingly. 

Father Francis did let the Captain General act 
the godfather. 



THE SURE AND TRULY GATEWAY 247 


Then as the Captain General of Bassein did 
kneel hnmbly by—for even the great bend in the 
presence of Reaper Death—Father Francis did 
take of the “chatti” and pour its contents sav¬ 
ingly over the pagan brow. 

Up and down and across fell the stream from 
the right hand of Xavier, and the Saint did say 
the words of life, giving the dying lad his own 
name. 

44 Now of a surety will Master Salaams—nay; 
Master Francis, enter before us, the Kingdom of 
our King,” said Father Francis sweetly, and he 
did lay the listless head in the hollow of his arm. 
Taking the rude cross from his waist and pressing 
it lightly 1 6 the lips, he did urge: 

‘ ‘ Francis-chhokra, hold tight this His Stand¬ 
ard. ’ ’ 

And he did speak such things to the stiffening 
lad as a father would say to a beloved son de¬ 
parting on a pleasant voyage. 

The kneeling Captain General—mighty gover¬ 
nor as he was in the Portuguese domains—did 
watch his new-given godson, lying there in the 
arms of Father Francis—that “Sure and Truly 
Gateway,” as he had called them hut an evening 
before—and he did feel the twitch of envy. This, 
the least of his subjects, had won the most cov¬ 
eted death in all the East Indies. 

Ere the light passed into the western waters 
and the little green parrots were again at rest, 
the brown lad slipped from the safe arms of 
Father Francis of Xavier, through the * ‘ Sure and 
Truly Gateway,’’ and sailing away, entered the 
Kingdom and made salaams to the King. 


PRAYER 


F ATHER FRANCIS HURTER sat alone in his 
room. His Breviary was read, and he was 
reaching a withered hand to light his long¬ 
stemmed pipe, when he remembered his daily 
Beads; so gently, as though not to offend Old 
Friend Pipe, he put it aside and sought trem¬ 
blingly in his habit pocket for another, older 
friend. 

Giving his rosary an affectionate squeeze (it 
had been his in Chicago before the fire), he 
glanced reminiscently at the crimson and gray 
college calendar and saw it was a “free day,” 
and his old brows puckered as he tried to recall, 
if he owed any rosaries. No promised intentions 
arose, and he was starting to offer them for his 
boy penitents. Father Hurter’s confessional in 
the back of the vast Gesu was a thronged box, 
for in St. Joe circles it was generally known 
“Father Francis” could understand a “feller” 
and “was easy on penances.” 

Then he heard, down in the college yard, a 
common college tragedy in seven reels. The 
sharp crack of a bat meeting a ball “on the nose”; 
a shout of unadulterated glee; followed almost 

instantly by the musical note of one pane becom- 

248 


PRAYER 


249 


ing several; a solemn, almost sacred, silence; 
then a deep voice, “like Iser, rolling rapidly”; 
receding trebles in Thompson Street: and a real, 
four a. m. silence in the empty college yard. 

It gave him his intention. 

Blessing himself, he lifted to his lips, as his 
custom had been from the calm novitiate years 
at Frederick, the Worn Figure, and began his 
Credo . Finishing the three Ave Marias, he 
stopped, and glancing up at the kindly-faced 
Sistine Madonna that hung over his prie-dieu, 
whispered: 

“Mother, this first decade, with all my heart, 
for some lad in deep trouble.” 

The lean leaves of the plantains, like great, 
green razor blades, sliced languidly at the warm 
breeze, coming occasionally from the waving rice 
paddies across the yellow Kwangho. In the scant, 
hot shade, that the plantains cast, like a flimsy 
gray veiling, across the white walls and the door¬ 
way of the farthest hut from Pere’s red-bricked 
residence, squatted a boy in blue pajamas, Bud¬ 
dha style. It was just as well his pitiful legs 
were bent crosswise, and a kindly plantain leaf 
shadowed his face, as he was not a whole boy, as 
healthy as boys go. 

Five years ago, he had been a black-queued 
Mass-server at tumbled Sen Mon Yeu, and deep 
down in the clear well of his heart there had been 
bubbling desires, that some day he also might 
have pigtailed altar boys serving him. He had 
even timidly whispered these secrets to bent Pere 


250 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


Molitor, who had baptized him and his mother 
and even, he had heard tell, her mother. 

Pere had encouraged him and promised to send 
him to the Petit Seminaire at Ton Se Wei, when, 
in one of the narrow alley-streets of swarming 
Canton, mar fong had touched him. 

Then had come the first, faint flush in his yellow 
cheek, and Pere Molitor had broken down more 
than he did, when the old missionary had to take 
him to Shek Lung and leave him in the company 
of other boys who were paying the penalty of 
death on the instalment plan. 

Thoughts of Ton Se Wei and what might have 
been were brimming his almond eyes, as he 
squatted there in the dust and the hot shade, a 
useless, rusting thing. Thoughts, that were fol¬ 
lowed by blacker, blacker thoughts, that led to 
worse than mere leprosy. 

Then, like the sun out of the East, came a clean, 
new thought: if he bore this rotting patiently, it 
would be only a little while longer, and then he, 
Francis Lau, would be clean of skin forever, like 
Mother Mary and the fair saints of her Son. 

Francis Lau smiled up beyond the green plan¬ 
tains, and there was something less awful in his 
part of a face. 

****** 

Father Hurter was finishing his decade, and he 
stopped a moment: 

“It's a hot day. I’ll say this one, Mother, 

as well as I may, for a laddie in swimming, whom 

danger threatens. 

****** 

Beneath the light blue velvet of the glorious 


PRAYER 


251 


heavens the white breakers splintered against the 
jagged brown rocks, that stretched out and curved 
to enclose a natural swimming tank. Ashore, the 
dense cocoanut palms and occasional breadfruit, 
swayed in unison. Sometimes, so mightily bowed 
the grove that the frosty-whiskered little mon¬ 
keys, like tiny jacks aloft in a gale, held on with 
every leathery paw, and the bold, black satin 
crows sailed up, cawing, cawing. 

Around the side of the small Hanuman temple, 
where the smoky incense curled up to the stone 
monkey god and the tom-tom boomed eternally, 
ran a laughing crowd of brown-footed boys. Some 
flew queer-tailed kites, all made of bamboo leaves 
and limbs, and others carried cricket bats under 
their arms, but all dropped these and their gay- 
colored saron cloths, which lay like splatters of 
maroon and yellow and parrot-green paint on the 
shore rocks, and raced to throw their brown selves 
into the warm, buoyant waves of their swimming 
tank. 

First of these seals splashed Francis Jayati- 
leke. His eager overhand lunges quickly carried 
him beyond the ken of his Belgian Prefect and 
the natural shelter of the tank, till he tossed, a 
solitary cork, on the open blue of the Indian 
Ocean. 

Riding a crest he could see the narrow out¬ 
rigger canoes of the fisherfolk and, shoreward, 
Galle Light, and the crumbled edge of the old 
Dutch fort, a relic of the days when Holland was 
master of the length of Ceylon, and back of that 
grassy green wall, the white buildings of his St. 
Aloysius> College, that huddled, like folks in the 


252 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


days of the Flood, high on the hill overlooking 
the city. 

Then he would sag into a deep trench of water, 
so low that even the chalk needle of the Light was 
lost, and he feared the lacy coral would cut him, 
and he would struggle for breath, before another 
mighty slope lifted him skyward. 

Suddenly an unexpected wave struck him across 
the eyes, like the open palm of an angry school¬ 
fellow, and he cried aloud with the smarting pain. 
Half blinded he turned on his back and kicked 
toward the entrance of the tank, and so he never 
saw the deadly black fin and the greenish white 
belly that passed within a fathom of him. 

Once in the gentle swells, back of the shelter of 

the sea rocks, the stinging left his eyes, and he 

was overhauling a brown Sinhalese chum, who 

had dared to duck him last swim. 

****** 

The second decade done, Father Hurter’s 
glance rested on his tidied desk—Father Hurter’s 
father had been a sailor, and there lay a gayly- 
worded postal from a “Philly” boy spending the 
day at Coney. The priest’s thoughts ran: 

“Sure, Mother, an’ this sunny day there will 
be thousands there. I’ll give this one that some 
boy comes back home whole.” 

Then he deliberately locked the memories of 

Surf Avenue and the lights of Luna out of his 

head, as he began the Our Father . 

****** 

“The Devil Dip Racer” stuck its scatfolding 
and ovals of serial track recklessly into the sky, 
ydiile it generously offered for “Ten cents, one 


PRAYER 


253 


dime. Children, half price!” as the hoarse- 
throated barker proclaimed, with the monotony 
of a repeating phonograph record, enough dan¬ 
gerous 44 dips” and right-angle whirls to satisfy 
even the jaded nerves of a New York boy. 

Now, Frank X. Murphy, with a much-punched 
Steeplechase badge hanging from his lapel, was 
that, and his available finances totaled just one 
Buffalo nickel beyond his subway fare. Then he 
had but his subway fare, while he clutched a 
cheaply-printed cardboard slip that bound 4 4 The 
Neptune Amusement Co.” to provide one round 
trip on 44 The Devil Dip Racer.” 

Frank shot by the couple ahead of him on the 
platform and dropped into the vacant front seat 
of the coaster car, but the big Italian starter said: 

44 Beat it, you kidda, an’ waita your turn.” 

And Frank got meekly out, while the couple 
got in. 

The car ran down the short incline, the 44 dog” 
gripped the chain, and, violently jerked and as 
violently tilted backward, was carried to the high¬ 
est point of the coaster. 

Then, while Frank Murphy sat in the next car 
with his eyes on the 44 Watch Your Hat” sign 
and the more eloquent wrecks beneath, there came 
on high screams—and then a falling car. 

Father Hurter looked at his rosary, and saw 
he was at the fourth decade. 

44 Mother,” he said aloud, 44 the world’s wide as 
your heart, and there must be many of your boys 
in peril. Now this for a special favorite—though, 


254 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


I know, you’d shield such a one without my poor 
prayers. ’ ’ 

###### 

Down the steep sides of the rocky nullah slipped 
Francis D ’Souza, heedless of the record the black¬ 
ish rocks left in his fresh white clothes. A prickly 
cactus swept off his pith helmet and it fell and 
leaped and disappeared into the mango tops, some 
hundreds of feet below, while Francis clung to 
his rifle and his life. 

After chota hazri—tea and a bun—he had lain 
in the machan back of St. Mary’s Barracks, a 
hunting-place of rocks and jumblum bushes, that 
commanded the only jungle road the gray apes 
could take to the great Ravine—while his “tuck 
friend” had stolen around to drive the shy 
bandarlog within range. 

Waiting, he could see on the other cliff the low 
bungalows, the thatched huts, and the yellow- 
domed temples of Khandala village; below, the 
quivering lines of the Great Indian Peninsula 
Railway and the black mouth of the last tunnel 
on the Ghats, still smoking from the passage of 
the Bombay Mail. 

Then, as he lay listening for the Mail to whistle 
at the Reversing Station (he checked the strong 
temptation to shoot at the fluffy quails that hur¬ 
ried close by, but he swiftly killed the scorpion 
that crawled up his boot), suddenly his ear caught 
the welcome chattering, and there below him were 
the gray shapes of the apes. 

They came bounding along their tree-top path, 
their tails high and curved, like a contented cat’s, 



PRAYER 


255 


and Francis conld see the tiny bachchas clinging 
upside down to the breasts of their mothers. 

He cocked his .22, carefully sighting at a sun- 
swept yard of the trail. He let the first ten lope 
by, till his intended bounded into the strong light. 
Then his finger tightened. The report echoed 
across the side ravine, and the sentinel kites on 
high rocked on expectant wings. 

The apes scattered in all directions, and 
Francis rose to chase the one that lagged. Out 
of the machan and through the jungle, across the 
fierce heat of the open plateau, heedless of snake 
holes, he tore and saw his prey drop into a stony 
nullah. Down the narrow trail that the neighbor¬ 
ing junglefolk, the brown black Kathkaris, had 
worn, Francis had followed, till his ‘‘topee ’’ had 
caught and dropped into the green depths of the 
Ravine. He had murmured 1 ‘Hard lines!” cling¬ 
ing to his rifle and his life. 

There his ape had disappeared completely, and 
all Francis could do was to halt and cool off be¬ 
fore attempting the steep nullah, back to the sur¬ 
face of the earth. 

Up he drew himself, till he could see the jungle 
on Rama’s Bed and Pillow again, and there, 
where a mighty boulder almost blocked the nullah, 
a slender shoot of bamboo caught his scapular 
tape and broke it. 

He stopped, with bare knees pressed against 
the rough steps of rock—almost a rocky ladder— 
to recover his medal, and as he did so, fifty feet 
above, a gray ape in a Jcarranda bush let fall a 
half eaten berry and swung away. 

It fell straight on the flat surface of the big 


256 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


boulder, and fairly struck “the Spectacled One” 
that, disturbed by the noises below, had come out 
and was nervously spreading her hood, almost 
over the path. The big cobra hissed angrily and 
glided back into her hole. 

Francis, reaching up a brown hand and clutch¬ 
ing the very warm rocks, where she had coiled a 
moment ago, pulled himself onto the even top. 

After another halt, he made the plateau, and 
there he met his white-habited Padre Sahib, who 
cried in mock alarm: 

“Is this the model Prefect of the Junior Sodal¬ 
ity? I don’t think even a dozen dhobis could wash 
that suit white again. Next time you go after the 

bandarlog, baba, wear your khaki.” 

###### 

Father Hurter waited as he came to the last 
decade. Often he did that, waiting for his Guard¬ 
ian Angel to suggest an appropriate intention. 
Hardly thinking what he said, he heard himself 
speaking: 

‘ 4 And this decade for one of the weak lads, who 
goes before your Son within the hour. 4 Show 
thyself a mother,’ Mother.” 

And he continued aloud: “The fifth glorious 

mystery.—Our Lady is crowned Queen of Heaven. 

Our Father, Who art in Heaven—” 

****** 

Out on the choppy Channel were hurrying ter¬ 
riers of destroyers, smoke belching furiously 
from their many funnels, and back of them, the 
low, bluish rim, over which came, when the wind 
blew strong from Flanders, faint, steady thunder. 
But here in the peace of the hedge-clipped lawn 


PRAYER 


257 


were tea tables and roses and the laughing blue¬ 
eyed Cornwell children. 

Mrs. Cornwell was preparing tea for an invited 
score of convalescents from The Hall, and her 
children, as becomes kiddies not yet tall enough 
“to do their bit,” were eager helpers. 

She cast a quick comprehensive glance over the 
linen and silver, and then remembering that these 
coming Tommies, though men, who had lived hor¬ 
rors over yonder, were yet boys in days, and would 
eat boyishly into the sweets, feared the embar¬ 
rassment of Cana. So the hostess said something 
to her slim son in the khaki and puttees of the 
Boy Scouts, and he, saluting, raced away. 

Francis, started the motor of his bike, and bend¬ 
ing double, like the dispatch rider he prayed to 
be, when the King’s sergeant would take him, 
drew a cloud of dust toward the hamlet. 

The tuck shop promised immediate reinforce¬ 
ments, and Francis was coming home, when his 
motor started to jump spark. He dismounted in 
the long shadows of the cemetery oaks. The 
trouble speedily discovered, he was mounting to 
chug-chug away, when, through the ivy-framed 
window of the chapel, he saw the rector seated 
at his confessional, his hand raised in the Act 
of Absolution. 

Maybe then it was only the wind in the oaks 
that whispered to the boy “Return in peace,” for 
it was very still there by the cemetery side, like 
waters at evening. The only sound, the light fall¬ 
ing clods, as the old gravedigger was opening a 
new grave, near the green mounds where Francis’ 
father and brothers lay, home from war. Again 


258 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


the oaks rustled overhead and the clods fell 
faintly, and the boy, leaning on his bike, listened 
deep down in his heart. 

He entered the cool, dim chapel, and found him¬ 
self kneeling before the Lady altar, examining 
his conscience. 

Then, a light-hearted boy again, he dispatch- 
ridered recklessly back to the tea, reaching there 
almost with the emergency sweets. 

But they were never to be needed, for the bell 
in the belfry gave the alarm to the countryside, 
while, half a mile away, at the Coastguard Sta¬ 
tion, the first * 1 Archie” roared, and the brave 
birds whirred up again from the aviation fields 
to defend the women and wounded and young. 

The Cornwell kiddies looked up, searching for 
the evil gray points, and Francis said: 

“Zeps, again, Mater.’’ 

Used to such, they rushed for glasses. Then 
Francis made out they were aeroplanes, maybe 
two score, and they might pass high over Hamp¬ 
ton Hall. 

On the lawn the children grouped about their 
mother, and with uptilted chins, wagered pennies, 
as the white cotton smoke of the shrapnel burst 
nearer and nearer the growing points. 

Then, out of the pleasant sunshine onto that 
green lawn, bordered by the roses and the trim 
hedges, fell a horror. 

Francis never saw the torn roses and the 
ragged hedges, for he lay, like his mother and 
sisters and baby brother, a hideous, damp, spread¬ 
ing thing. 


PRAYER 


259 


“Amen,” said Father Francis Hnrter, blessing 
himself and slipping his old rosary into his habit 
pocket. 

Then the old priest reached for the Old Friend 
he had slighted before. 


THE CARPENTER OF GOD 


T HE two girls chattered, as with nimble fingers 
they proceeded to decorate their particular 
“Foreign Mission” booth for the opening of the 
“Field Afar Bazaar.” 

Warned the blonde: 

“You’re taking big chances if you intend to 
stand on those boards, dearest.” 

Replied the brunette: 

“I’ll risk my one-eighty on anything old Joe 
Barrium made. For there’s finish and eternity 
to his carpentry. All his workmanship, Mary, is 
like that Life Insurance Company which adver¬ 
tised in the last Church Bulletin—‘As Enduring 
As Gibraltar.’ ” 

And, grasping a couple of rolls of crepe paper, 
plump Nellie Haas confidentially transferred her 
“one-eighty”—which was really a conservative 
estimate—from the chair to the table of the newly- 
made booth. 

With the crimson strips she began to bind the 
slim uprights that supported the booth’s gaudy 
canopy. 

It was Mary Adelizzi who discovered the 
shortage. 

“Oh! That crepe is yards short! We’ll never 

260 



THE CARPENTER OF GOD 


261 


be able to cover all those strips, and it must be 
nearly 5:30 already! ’ ’ 

“Then send Joe Barnum for more. He’ll get 
it in a jiffy. Here, you tack this turkey red calico 
up and get it wrinkly, Mary. I want a Fortune 
Telling effect to this booth. That’s Eastern, or 
something, and just the thing for the Foreign 
Missions.” 

Nellie returned to the floor of the Lyceum and 
called across the hall: 

“Joe! Joe Barnum, you—ou! Come here this 
instant! ” 

At the distant half-constructed booth, the young 
carpenter obediently laid down his hammer and 
started across the Church Hall floor. His rough 
overalls hid a big frame, and a quiet smile lit his 
gray eyes as he listened to the two girls. 

“And we just must have the booth finished by 
six, Joe,” implored Nellie Haas. 

“I see. Well, give me a sample of the color, 
Miss. Will two rolls surely be enough?—and I’ll 
trot around to Murphy & Hamberger’s and have 
the paper back in ten minutes. You young ladies 
go right ahead.” 

With a blush that became him, Joe Barnum dis¬ 
appeared through the doorway. 

“Did you hear ‘ Miss’ and ‘young ladies’!” ex¬ 
ploded Mary. “And you and I went through the 
parochial school with him! ’ ’ 

“Oh! Joe Barnum always thinks TNT and 
our sex have much in common,” charged Nellie 
Haas. “But I prefer that girl-shy type to some 
other this year models of the male. Take Buddy 


262 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


Burke, now. I could have slapped his face the 
other Sunday coming home from the seven.’’ 

“Joe should have been a priest,” said Mary. 
“Wouldn’t he have made a magnificent one! I 
always imagined—” 

“Under those curly brown locks he may have 
had some such thoughts years ago, but, first, with 
his mother a widow and that Barnum brood to 
help raise, what opportunity had the poor boy? 
Then when the mother went to her rest, there 
were the youngsters to put through school. 
Father Dwight says he’s one of the most capable 
carpenters in the city and he’s getting good 
steady wages now.” 

“I suppose he has a neat bank account against 
the day that a new home will be started.” 

“Who! Joe Barnum! That boy never cared 
for money,” asserted Nellie Haas. “You must 
think I haven’t two perfectly good eyes. What 
doesn’t go into the family funds, is quietly spent 
on some charities. Just you keep your eyes open 
tonight, dear, and you’ll see Joe Barnum drift 
up to our 1 Foreign Mission’ booth and leave half 
a week’s wages in our cash drawer. And he’ll 
spend those dollars so unostentatiously that un¬ 
less you’re sharp, you’d think that noisy and 
noisome Buddy Burke, being shamed out of a 
quarter, was spending the greater sum.” 

“But everybody in the parish knows Joe is in¬ 
terested in the Foreign Missions. Isn’t he one 
of the prime movers of this evening’s Bazaar!” 

“Hush, Mary. Here comes our St. Joseph now 
with the crepe,” cautioned Nellie. 

The young carpenter handed over five crimson 


THE CARPENTER OF GOD 


263 


rolls smilingly, and three minutes later he was 

back at his unfinished work on the “ Philippine ” 

booth in the far corner of the Lyceum. 

****** 

When Joe Barnum, among the last of the 
Bazaar workers, left the Lyceum and walked 
home, he found an envelope in the letter box. It 
was addressed to him and he recognized the 
scrawly handwriting. Methodically, he put it 
into his pocket and sat down in the kitchen to his 
belated supper. 

“If there’s anything else you want, Joe, help 
yourself,” said his sister Martha. “Harry Shaw 
will come for me in a few minutes. 

“Don’t forget! You spend most of your money 
at my ‘ Jamaica’ booth,” she admonished. “Bet¬ 
ter start with me. Those parish girls will be 
very persuasive tonight, so steel your heart, Joe 
dear, till I’ve practically cleaned out your pocket- 
book.” 

“Gee! Martha, I’d rather stand and deliver 
to you now, than run that fair gauntlet tonight.” 

“You’ll do no such thing!” charged his sister. 
“And if you dare to duck the Bazaar and go to 
bed, I’ll, I’ll— Here’s Harry now. ’Bye.” 

He heard Martha laughing gayly in the hall¬ 
way. Then the front door slammed and Joe 
Barnum grinned. 

He reached into his pocket to find the “mak¬ 
ings.” Rolling one, and striking a match, he sat 
back in leisure to enjoy his letter. 

“At last I’m on Easy Boulevard, Joe, old 
scout,” wrote his correspondent. “This South¬ 
ern California is a little big hunk of Heaven and 


234 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


there’s money in the very air. I’m breathing that 
air in deep draughts—this is a pun, hut you plod¬ 
ding carpenters will never see it. Weil, I don’t 
mind saying Life has smiled on me. With the 
best little wife and two of the finest kids in ‘God’s 
Country’. . . . Junior is as bright as Jackie 
Coogan and Sister will knock ’em dead about a 
decade hence. . . . Man, oh man, you’re miss¬ 
ing Life. . . . Nellie Haas has had her cap set 
for you for years. . . . This is a secret, but it’s 
a safe bet I’m nominated for Congress this sum¬ 
mer and when I come out top dog in the November 
elections, I’ll be back in Washington with ‘Hon¬ 
orable’ before my Baptismal name. And, believe 
me, Joe, this baby is going higher. . . . ” 

There was more to this chatty letter from this 
old boyhood chum. Plans and anticipated pleas¬ 
ures of a long successful life. 

Joe Barnum, sitting there in the silent plain 
kitchen of his home, tired after a day’s toil and 
the extra work that the “Field Afar Bazaar” en¬ 
tailed, felt a twitch of jealousy. Here he was 
dangerously close to thirty-five. His life plans 
had always to be set aside. There had been the 
burden of the home that had fallen on his boyish 
shoulders. Yes; he might have let the others 
shift for themselves. They all were now. . . . 
Bill went out to Golden California . . . soon the 
Honorable William Berch, M. C. . . . money . . . 
best little wife . . . bright as Jackie Coogan. 

Joe Barnum looked about the home. Just 
Martha and himself and soon Martha would be 
Mrs. Henry Shaw and then . . . 

There was a sharp ring at the door bell and, 


THE CARPENTER OF GOD 


265 


putting down his cigarette in a saucer, Joe got 
up to answer it. Very likely they needed a car¬ 
penter at the Bazaar in a hurry. Lucky, I left 
my tool chest there. 

But a red-haired messenger boy stood on the 
steps. He grinned in friendly manner at the 
young carpenter. 

4 ‘Joe, it’s for you yourself. No charges.’’ 
And he held out the book to be signed. 

Joe Barnum took the telegram. Then he 
reached into his pocket. 

4 ‘Thank you, Mr. Barnum. That’s just what 
I need for the 4 Field Afar Bazaar’,” said the 
messenger gratefully. 

Joe went back to the kitchen and methodically 
gathered up the pages of Bill Berch’s panegyric 
on Life and carefully put them back into their 
envelope. 

He took a table knife and ripped open the tele¬ 
gram. He read it through with a swift intake of 
his breath. 

Then he reread it slowly: the brief tragic lines 
that had sped across the continent. 

Joe Barnum knelt down there by the kitchen 
table and he prayed, “Eternal rest grant unto 
him, 0 Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon 
him. ’ ’ His hand slipped naturally into his pocket 
and he was saying a decade. 

When he got to his feet, he picked up again the 
yellow sheet to read: 

“William and Junior killed instantly 
today. Auto accident. Sister unhurt. 

“Katherine Berch.” 


266 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


The cigarette in the saucer sent up a final 
wreath of thin smoke. Then it puffed out, leav¬ 
ing a long gray roll of ashes. 

Very quietly, Joe Barnum went up to his room 
and dressed for the Bazaar. His thoughts kept 
traveling back to his chum. . . . Poor old Bill! 
. . . The last thought in his head! 

Finally, when he stood at the front door, he 
turned back and picking up the phone, called the 
Rectory. Catching Father Dwight, the curate, 
he arranged to have a Requiem Mass said in the 
morning. Yes; he would be glad to serve it 
himself. 

Then he went back to the silent kitchen and 
laying the sheets of the letter and the yellow tele¬ 
gram side by side, he began to think his thoughts 
in quietness. 

A breeze from the kitchen window had scat¬ 
tered the long gray roll of ashes across the table. 

There had come to Joseph Barnum the grace 
of one of those clarifying hours, when this uncer¬ 
tain world of probation and all its pleasing trifles, 
wealth and the shadow of an honored name, stood 
forth in all their tinsel reality. “I’m breathing 
that air in deep draughts” . . . “Honorable” 
. . . “this baby is going higher. . . . “Killed 
instantly . 9 9 

###### 

It was a fortnight later and Father Dwight 
was counseling: 

“It’s too late for you to start Theological stud¬ 
ies now, Joe, but feeling as you do, have you ever 
given the idea of becoming a brother in one of 
the Religious Orders a serious thought!” 


THE CARPENTER OF GOD 


267 


“But, Father, would they consider a candidate 
of my age? You know how it was. I had to go 
to work after finishing the Grades. It was all 
Mother—God rest her!—could do to skimp and 
give me that much schooling.” 

“So you became a carpenter?” 

“Yes; Father, I know that trade inside out,” 
said Joe confidently, not boastfully. “But what 
help is that?” 

“Only this, in the religious life there is need 
for men of all trades. Plumber and tailor, cook 
and bookkeeper, electrician: all may consecrate 
their trade to the service of the Lord. The 
preacher must eat and be clothed, and the con¬ 
fessor must have his Confessional and his chair 
and his table, and the Community must have the 
hundred and one articles that hammer and nails, 
plane and saw construct. 

“In his hidden way, that first lay brother, the 
carpenter Joseph, had a desirable share in the 
mighty work of Redemption, didn’t he? He pro¬ 
vided the necessaries of life for the Mother and 
the Carpenter’s Son. Tradition tells us that for 
twenty odd years, while ‘ Jesus increased in wis¬ 
dom and age and grace,’ it was the humble and 
silent and efficient Gay brother’ of Nazareth who 
supported the Holy Family. 

“So it is in the Religious Orders, the part of 
St. Joseph is taken by the brothers who toil in 
lowly and necessary occupations that their breth¬ 
ren, 4 the Other Christs ’ may be freer for their 
ministry. ’ ’ 

Father Dwight broke off as he saw the gray¬ 
eyed Joseph Barnum watching him. Standing 


268 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


up, the curate crossed his study to select a small 
volume from among his books. 

Turning to a page that opened easily, he 
handed the small volume to Joseph and said: 

“Read this out loud.” 

Joseph complied: 

“Here one lives more purely, falls more rarely, 
rises more promptly, proceeds more cautiously, 
reaps more graces, enjoys more peace, and pos¬ 
sesses the pledge of a happy death, of a shorter 
Purgatory, and of a richer reward in Heaven.’’ 

Joseph finished and Father Dwight explained: 

“Those lines were written many centuries ago 
and they are as fresh and apt in our age as they 
were on the day St. Bernard penned them. They 
epitomize, that is, they sum up briefly, the life in 
religion of the three Vows of Poverty, Chastity, 
and Obedience. And they apply with equal force 
to the Religious, whether priest or brother.” 

The curate held out his cigarette case. 

“No thanks, Father,” said Joseph Barnum, “I 
haven’t cared to smoke one of those things for 
the past two weeks.” 

The young carpenter stood up. 

“I’ll think this talk over, but if I did decide on 
anything, what would I have to do?” 

“Do?” questioned Father Dwight. “Why, 
drop into the Rectory of the nearest church, con¬ 
ducted by Religious, and ask to see one of the 
priests. Here in this city, for instance, is St. 
Aloysius’—” 

****** 

The following extract is taken verbatim from 


THE CARPENTER OF GOD 


269 


the issue of “The Pilgrim of Our Lady of Mar¬ 
tyrs” for April, 1945: 

“As we go to press a cable comes from our dis¬ 
tant Philippine Mission, announcing the death of 
Brother Joseph Barrium, S. J. Brother Joseph's 
name infrequently appeared in this quarterly, 
but that does not signify he was not a valiant 
laborer in the Field Afar. 

“Entering the Society of Jesus at the age of 
thirty-six, he made his novitiate, partly, at St. 
Andrew-on-Hudson and, partly, at Woodstock 
College. His religious brethren recall lovingly 
the memory of this humble lay brother, who, a 
carpenter by trade, consecrated his marked abil¬ 
ity with tools to the greater glory of God. 

“There was much of St. Joseph in this name¬ 
sake of the Carpenter of Nazareth. The same 
modesty and quiet efficiency, the same ceaseless 
zeal to be about 4 His Father's business.’ He was 
a man of few words and many prayers. 

“Shortly after pronouncing his First Vows, 
Superiors sent Brother Barnum, S. J., to the dis¬ 
tant islands that were to be the scene of his apos¬ 
tolic labors. 

“Only recently the Superior of the Philippine 
Mission in writing to Very Reverend Father Pro¬ 
vincial, said: ‘Brother Barnum has not been well 
for the past month and his health is a matter of 
deep concern to all the missionaries here. God 
alone knows the amount of work ad majorem Dei 
gloriam our Brother Joseph has achieved during 
his eighteen years of consecrated toil here in The 
Islands. Brother has always appeared to me— 
and only the other day his Rector at The Ateneo 



270 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


remarked the same—as the living exponent of 
onr Vows: Poverty in his dress, Chastity in his 
countenance, and Holy Obedience in his ever 
ready hands. Before God, this zealous brother 
is one of our most valuable missionaries and his 
value increases with the years of his religious life. 
Please ask the earnest prayers of our brethren 
in ‘God’s Country ’ that the Carpenter of Naza¬ 
reth spare our good Brother Joseph to us. His 
death would be an irretrievable loss to this 
Mission.’ ’ 

“ ‘The Carpenter of Nazareth,’ however, came 
and bade Brother Barnum lay aside his conse¬ 
crated carpentry. We have as yet no details of 
his happy death, but in the words of St. Bernard 
—words Brother Joseph was fond of repeating— 
we feel confident that this Carpenter of God has 
already possessed ‘the pledge of a shorter Pur¬ 
gatory and of a richer reward in Heaven . 9 R. 
I. P.” 


MIRZA, THE MISCHIEVOUS 


T N THOSE other days, when all men knew the 
city as Goa, the Golden, she had many mer¬ 
chants, and foremost of these was Don Visitatio 
de Noronha. His high galleons, deep laden with 
precious wares of silks and spices and smooth 
ivories, did part the waves, up and down and back 
and across the blue waterways of the fair pagan 
seas, like shuttles, and weave him a wealth of 
gold. But dearer to the bosom of Don Visitatio 
than the studded chests, that his successful ven¬ 
tures overflowed, was his small heir, Pascale de 
Noronha. And dearer to the boy than ought else, 
though he possessed many and precious proper¬ 
ties in his father’s great white villa, was Mirza, 
the Mischievous. 

Now, as presently shall be unfolded, this Mir¬ 
za’s erring paw is the happy cause of this very 
tale, for it did bring a rare blessing on the boy. 

For once, when holy Father Francis of Xavier 
had returned to Goa—it was during that last time 
he came back from ungrateful Malacca—he vis¬ 
ited his most familiar friend, Don Visitatio de 
Noronha. Four days he honored the great white 
villa, that did command a placid view of palm 
tops and white breaking waves and the Arabian 
Sea’s distant blue rim. 

Pascale, like all folks of good will, would fain 
pass the hours where gentle Father Francis was. 

271 


272 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


For he did always experience deep delight in the 
company of the Saint. But it was not seemly 
that a boy of manners should speak when his 
elders spoke together, so the boy stood beside the 
chairs (Mirza busy with a berry, perched high on 
his shoulder), and listened with mouth agape. 

For Father Francis was describing to his host 
his righteous departure from the beach of Ma¬ 
lacca, when he loosened his sandals and shook off 
forever the dust of the city of that obstinate peo¬ 
ple. And he did tell them to their blanched faces 
—Father Francis spoke it sadly—that God would 
turn His Face away from Malacca and its evil 
from that day hence. 

(Ye all know that to this latter age the once 
proud port is passed by and the city lies white 
and palsied in the sun, yet will not quite die—a 
city like unto the false fig tree that long ago the 
gentle Master Himself did curse.) 

More spoke Father Francis there on the lat¬ 
ticed veranda; but the boy, listening, did not hear 
him, for his head was full of the picture of the 
malediction Malacca lay under. 

Then the sun being high, Don Visitatio did 
courteously arise. He laughingly remarked the 
baby monkey, now half asleep in the arms of 
Pascale, and said: 

‘ 4 Father Francis, I would sometimes you laid 
a curse on that imp, Mirza, for he does bring 
trouble beyond his size on my home.” 

Said Father Francis, stroking the soft olive 
drab fur, as a tiny paw did reach and handle curi¬ 
ously the worn crucifix that was thrust in the 
Saint’s girdle: 



MIRZA, THE MISCHIEVOUS 


273 


“Nay, Visitatio. See, our Mirza does fondle 
lovingly Our Lord. A curse on such a monkey? 
Nay, Visitatio. Away be such sentiments, for my 
Pascale *s friend is my friend ever.” 

Here Mirza did reach and pull the crucifix from 
Father Francis* girdle and thrust it on Pascale. 
Horrified, the boy instantly restored it, chiding 
his overbold pet. 

Then Father Francis was escorted to his own 
assigned room, for the hour of siesta had come 
and Hon Visitatio and his son bowed courteously. 

Later Pascale came softly to the door of the 
Father’s room, hoping he would be invited in for 
the dear privilege of a private talk. But he saw 
Father Francis at his rest. 

Pascale did walk away without noise and dis¬ 
miss Mirza, who swung in great swings off to a 
favorite mango. 

Ah, it were well for the boy if he had kept the 
monkey close by him that warm afternoon! For, 
within the hour, Mirza, with a half-eaten kar- 
randa berry in his paw, came swinging back and 
dropped lightly from out of a nearby cocoanut 
palm onto the stone floor of the corridor. A 
brown servant lay sleeping in a doorway; else the 
long corridor was deserted. 

Mirza loped into the room of his master, but 
he was not sleeping there. Then this mischievous 
one did explore other rooms on that corridor, 
seeking the boy, and finally—it were a rude thing 
to do—he came unannounced into the guest-room. 
In came that irreverent pet, into the very presence 
of the Saint. More, he did uninvited climb onto 
the low rope bed and sit up, peering with tiny 


274 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


head cocked, into the brown bearded face, but it 
was not his master’s. So he let himself down to 
the floor and chased a lizard up the wall and 
drank greedily from the vessel of water. Then 
he noticed something attractive, worn and shiny, 
that lay by the bedside. Mirza must trail across 
and pick it up and nose it and examine it curi¬ 
ously. And, finally, he did the deed that caused 
much confusion later in the great white villa of 
Don Visitatio de Noronha. Mirza loped away, 
out of the chamber of Father Francis and down 
the sharp shadowed corridor, by the supine ser¬ 
vant, and in his leathery paw he clutched, as a 
very miser would a coin of gold, the crucifix that 
men well called miraculous. 

It was cooler when the Saint awoke refreshed 
and he made search with much diligence under 
chair and bed and stand for his companion cross. 
He knew he had clasped it, as his custom was, 
drifting off into slumber. But, as was natural, 
the big room did not yield the missing article. 
And when his host came to his door, and saw 
Father Francis searching fruitlessly, he asked 
the cause thereof and Father Francis did tell him 
of his grievous loss. 

Don Visitatio de Noronha’s face darkened and 
he swore by the depth of the sea, the robber of 
his household, who had done that crime, would be 
punished forthwith. 

Then came Pascale along the corridor, with 
Mirza on his shoulder, and Don Visitatio did call 
him sharply and question him. When the boy 
learned what had disappeared, he told shame¬ 
facedly of his tiptoe visit to the door of the room 


MIRZA, THE MISCHIEVOUS 


275 


and of his seeing the very crucifix in the clasped 
hand of Father Francis. As if to strengthen his 
young master’s tale, the monkey Mirza chattered 
most significantly. Whereat Pascale de Noronha 
did say: 

“Most holy Father, see, my brother, Mirza, 
does himself confirm my tale. For he was on my 
shoulder, when I did see you at your slumbers.’’ 

And again Mirza chattered affirmatively and 
laid his tiny head against the boy’s ear, as much 
as to say, “Assuredly, holy Father Francis, I 
confirm all that has been uttered by my good 
master.” 

So whimsically did the baby act that Father 
Francis stretched out his gentle hand and invited 
Mirza to come. And at once (for Father Francis 
had a winning way that did attract both man and 
beast), the little Mirza leaped fearlessly and 
landed on the holy shoulder of Father Francis, 
where he did make himself secure by clasping 
with firm paw the Saint’s ear. From that high 
perch he made faces comical at his laughing mas¬ 
ter and the grave Don. Even Father Francis did 
laugh heartily at the rogue. 

But Don Visitatio de Noronha, though he 
smiled pleasantly, excused himself presently and 
called his butler. And he did order instant search 
to be made and all the house servants questioned. 
He felt it deeply that his guest, the holy Father 
Francis, should suffer any loss while under his 
roof. Great was the search and minute that com¬ 
menced in the great white villa of de Noronha. 
Maid-servants were questioned till they burst into 
tears, and the brown men of the house and stables 


276 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


were summoned, but each and all were earnest in 
their denial. Even the frightened red-turbaned 
gardeners, who were poor pagans and unknowing 
what a crucifix might be, did with many fluent 
words deny their guilt. Sudden darkness came, 
lighting the silver stars, and yet the crucifix of 
Father Francis, even a slender clue to its where¬ 
abouts, was missing. Father Francis himself 
said it was mysterious and, perhaps, the children 
angels had in their thoughtless play mislaid it, 
but that answer did not please the merchant, 
Don Yisitatio de Noronha. He vowed piously— 
for the Saint sat beside him at the dinner-table 
and he was constrained to speak circumspect— 
that, come morning’s light, he would himself in¬ 
terrogate each man-servant and each maid-ser¬ 
vant who did idle in his great white villa. And 
he added—again constrainedly—that he would 
know and punish that culprit if it cost him half 
the cost of a laden galleon. He asked the Saint 
bluntly to lay a curse on this thief, who had dis¬ 
graced his hospitality; as weighty a curse as 
Father Francis had laid on wicked Malacca. But 
Father Francis wo’uld not promise. Instead, he 
wished the missing article might make the culprit 
penitent. And the cause of all the excitement did 
sit as sedately on Pascale’s shoulder and accept 
berries from the table and bury his milky teeth- 
points into choice bits of cocoanut meat as though 
his conscience were not as black as his paws. 

It was after bed-time, when Pascale de No¬ 
ronha made a horrifying discovery. He had re¬ 
tired to his own room otf the corridor, but three 
doors away from the room of the villa’s guest. 


MIRZA, THE MISCHIEVOUS 


277 


Turning over to sleep he felt something soft and 
wet under his pillow and then his hand touched 
something hard. Sleep deserted Pascale and he 
did spring up and bring a flickering light and ex¬ 
amine. There lay a half-eaten karranda berry, 
staining darkly the sheet, and beside it lay the 
holy crucifix of Father Francis! At that mo¬ 
ment, out of the night Mirza came trailing his 
broken chain. And somehow, Pascale knew the 
culprit. 

4 4 Oh! Mirza, thou wicked, wicked one! To 
steal from the good Father Francis! Thou art 
indeed a prince’’—such does Mirza mean— 44 but 
a prince of darkness, and thou art not any longer 
my brother. No wonder you fear the black lone¬ 
liness of the compound, with such a conscience! 
Prince—of Darkness!” 

Mirza did seem to sense his master’s dis¬ 
pleasure, for he crouched, laying his head on his 
paws, and even his tail did exhibit the symptoms 
of penitence. Then it was that Pascale de No- 
ronha’s heart softened, when he would it would 
harden, for he loved first this Mirza, 4 4 the mis¬ 
chievous one,” and he remembered Don Visita- 
tio’s great wrath and he feared exceedingly when 
his father would discover the truth and the true 
culprit. So he scolded his pet decreasingly, but 
he resolved in his heart to hide the crucifix of 
Father Francis and not make discovery. With 
this resolve hot in his breast he did take the cross 
and carry it out into the night to a secret place 
that he knew in the branches of a great banian. 
And there he lay it hidden. Then he returned 


278 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


softly as the sea’s breeze, to his high room, and 
took Mirza with him, saying half justifyingly: 

“Mirza, I do not trust thee, and lest thou steal 
Master Father Francis himself, I must needs 
keep thee here in bed with me.” 

So Mirza curled up in a furry ball, did sleep 
contented, but Pascale’s sleep was troubled, for 
well he knew that hiding the culprit’s guilt was 
not his road to peace of conscience. Yet he loved 
Mirza, the Mischievous. 

When morning had brightened, greater was the 
search made, till the whole household was troubled 
exceedingly; save only the Father himself, who 
went early into Goa on God’s affairs. Don Visi- 
tatio alternately offered rewards of silver and 
threatened punishments that made Pascale, hear¬ 
ing his father’s wrath, tremble. The luckless ser¬ 
vant, who had taken his siesta yesterday in the 
corridor was denounced to Don Yisitatio and or¬ 
dered to be whipped. Still Pascale stood firm in 
his evil design to shield the thief, holding the 
monkey dearer now that he was causing him pain. 

At high noon something serious happened, for 
Mirza, as though a curse had come home, was 
stricken with sudden, mysterious sickness. He 
did crawl into the arms of Pascale and look up 
piteously and almost seem to tell the boy to 
speak out his guilt, ere he did pass to his 
ancestors. 

Worse grew Mirza as the day went down and 
with the return of Father Francis he was nigh 
his passage. Very terrified grew Pascale as he 
saw the pains of his pet, for he began to fear this 
was, indeed, a curse working and he, an accom- 


MIRZA, THE MISCHIEVOUS 


279 


plice, would be included in it. Vividly be recalled 
what his father and his friends said openly of 
Malacca; yea, what he himself had heard from 
the lips of Father Francis but yesterday evening. 

So with beating heart he did take the weak 
frame of Mirza and going, come to the guest¬ 
room. When Father Francis bade him come in, 
Pascale entered with shamed mien and falling on 
his knees held out the culprit supplicantly, saying 
with torrents of words: 

“Most merciful Father Francis, see, here is the 
thief and here am I, his partner, who did wickedly 
shield him. See, he suffers for his black fault, 
Father Francis! Oh, take away your curse and 
I will this minute restore your cross.” 

“What foolish words say you, my child?” 
asked the Saint; for he did not comprehend these 
tumbled words, seeing but a tearful boy and a 
very limp monkey. Then Pascale did explain in 
fuller details and the Saint laughed pleasantly, 
his azure eyes gleaming denial. 

“You foolish little one, to think for a moment 
that I would lay a curse on one of God’s silent 
creatures, or on the son of my most familiar 
friend, Don Visitatio! I’ll say our Master Mirza 
hath but eaten overmuch of mangoes and ’tis 
Mother Nature who hath laid this, her curse, on 
him. Come, let me take him, while you go and 
bring back my truant cross.” 

And he did reach and take the sufferer in his 
kind hands, saying: 

“So this little pagan did enter and carry off 
my Christian crucifix while I did sleep!” 

Then the boy went in haste to the secret place 


280 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


in the compound and came running back. At 
once Pascale’s fears and troubles faded, like the 
end of day, as he saw the mite already grown 
lively in the hands of Father Francis and again 
the wizened Mirza, the Mischievous, of yesterday 
and this morning. Then Father Francis said: 

“ Pascale—baba, take thy penitent thief and tell 
him, for you speak his language, perhaps, better 
than I do, tell him that next time he would remove 
any of my property, it must be a bit of yellow 
mango or other choice fruit, not this dear image 
of our Master.’’ 

Pascale de Noronha would ask his own pardon 
for his deceit, but Father Francis did wave him 
silent, as Don Visitatio stood in the doorway. 
Father Francis showed him gladly his crucifix 
and said it had been returned most satisfactorily 
and added dryly that the culprit had already paid 
overmuch his punishment. Then Father Francis 
made mention of Pascale’s fear and beckoning 
the lad to his side, said: 

‘ 1 Visitatio, thy little son did foolishly think I 
would call down the Master’s great displeasure 
on his head for this baby monkey’s whim. Nay: 
never would I do thus. But what I will do, is 
this.” 

He took the restored crucifix and placed it in 
the boy’s hand. 

“Pascale, Mirza did give you this once, but 
now I give it to you. ’ ’ 

Father Francis laid his gentle hand on Pas¬ 
cale ’s head, as he continued gravely: 

“Visitatio, my true friend, may you live to see 
the Master bless you exceedingly in this favored 



MIRZA, THE MISCHIEVOUS 


281 


child. May the Master grant him at the end of 
his days that grace I do most desire for myself! 
Amen. ’ 9 

Father Francis turned and looked hungrily into 
the East, where below far horizons lay the islands 
of pagan Japan. His eyes were happy, not sad, 
as he turned back and he soon commenced teasing 
the willing Mirza and changed the conversation 
into lighter veins. 

###### 

Two scores of years later, when Mirza was a 
memory, Don Visitatio de Noronha, grown bent 
and gray, did recall those wondrous words of 
Father Francis, as he received the tidings and the 
charred remains of that twice holy crucifix. For 
Mirza’s master was that Blessed Father Pascale 
de Noronha, who in the far kingdom of Saxuma, 
among his Christian converts, did glorify God ex¬ 
ceedingly, winning the grace Father Francis of 
Xavier did most desire, by the slow flame of a 

Japanese martyrdom, 


THE COBRA'S HOOD 


T HE President Lincoln’s knots were numbered. 

The captive dragon, gliding through the still 
glare that marked her a brilliant target, was 
bearing a handful of her conquerors homeward. 

Aloft twin plumes of smoke made puny efforts 
to blot out God’s skywork, and the rigid snakes 
of the wireless swayed through worlds of distant 
diamonds and back again. Something of this in¬ 
finity of space and the anxious night and the omi¬ 
nous waste of waters directly ahead of the trans¬ 
port cast a reflexive silence over the four casuals. 
Smoking was a thing tabooed and conversation 
lagged dismally. 

An engine-room exhaust, far below the bright 
rails, began to hiss intermittently, as though it 
were a serpent angered by a sudden awakening. 
“Hissing like a monster snake,” remarked an 
officer. 

“India is a paradise for such brutes,” replied 
the lone civilian of the group. 

Again the exhaust hissed menacingly. 
“They’re demons in scales. I’ll say they are!” 
“They are demons in scales,” repeated the 
quiet voice. “And the master demons in Hindu¬ 
stan are the sacred cobras.” 

“That’s a cheerful record you’re putting on in 
these evil waters; but shoot,” and the officer 
humped his lifebelt so that he could lie back more 
comfortably. 


282 





THE COBRA'S HOOD 


283 


“You know, of course, these creeping deaths 
are sacred to the memory of Shiva, a big boss god 
on that coral strand. And millions believe there's 
a curse comes home to roost on whoever would 
kill a temple cobra. This would be superstitious 
in U. S. A. It is one hundred per cent, supersti¬ 
tion, but India"—there was a little pause—“is 
India. 

“If any of you gentlemen have ever wandered 
as far East as Bombay you must have heard of 
Khandala. It's the city's hill station. 

i ‘ Last May there I had dinner at the bungalow 
of a Parsi chap, whom I had met in Bombay, and, 
our cigars smoked, little Phil Wheeler came by 
appointment to escort me back to St. Mary's 
School, where I was stopping. 

“My small guide was a slim, erect Anglo- 
Indian, not half bad-looking, though in daytime 
his face was disfigured with the pocks of a com¬ 
mon disease. He was bareheaded and bare-kneed, 
and in the khaki shorts and shirt of his school- 
cadet's uniform he might have passed for an 
Asian boy scout. He owned an infectious smile 
and the saddest eyes I have ever seen in dog or 
man—great dark wells in whose depths forever 
lurked uneasy shadows. 

“I was a guest Sahib at his school and a decided 
novelty from the land of cowboys and red In¬ 
dians, so his questions flowed like water over a 
falls. 

“Finally we halted at a wild spot where the 
lonely brilliant hill road is really a gutter on the 
roof of the world. Here is a low loose stone 
guardwall, and below us, in the mighty ravine, 


284 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


the earth lay like land on the moon. It certainly 
was what my companion called ‘a healthy fall, 
sir/ to the black tops of the tall jungle far below, 
and the silent torrent down there might have been 
a broken-backed reptile of quicksilver twisting 
out its existence. Across this Asian Grand Can¬ 
yon it was gleaming daylight on the abruptly 
ended plateau, that looked as unattainable to us 
as Abraham’s Bosom did to thirsty Dives. We 
halted a bit here, sitting with our backs to the 
abyss, and the silence of the great stars stilled 
our tongues. Also the remainder of a tin of 
chocolates helped. 

“Down the road a scattering of yellow gleams 
showed the thatched huts of native Khandala, and 
back of the village, as swiftly as the ravine fell, 
rose a corrugated coal-black range that termi¬ 
nated before us in a peculiarly shaped promon¬ 
tory. This massive prow of rock, towering 
silently up almost to the Southern Cross, is called 
Duke’s Nose. It has been so christened by the 
last conquering power from its resemblance to 
the beak of Wellington, but from our chance angle 
of vision its native name down innumerable cen¬ 
turies better fitted it. For, ominously dark 
against the blue and silver of night, this peak 
was Nag Phani—the cobra with spread hood, 
rearing at the instant of its lightning lurch. And 
that apt designation made me drop into the 
vernacular. 

“ ‘Nag Phani’! I exclaimed involuntarily. 

“Phil, swinging his legs at my side, stopped 
sounding the tin of chocolates to look up at me, 
and smiled shyly: 


THE COBRA'S HOOD 


285 


“ * Sahib, how did you know my nickname V 

“I naturally registered my ignorance of that 
bit of school knowledge. Then he explained. 

“ ‘Please, sir, the boys call me that, for I don’t 
like snakes, sir.’ There was no mistaking the 
dislike in his tone. ‘And, and another reason.’ 
He said this bashfully. 

“ ‘Nag Phani! The Cobra’s Hood! Why that 
name, baba?’ 

“He looked at me with those great black eyes 
that seemed forever to gaze on tragedy. Then 
impetuously he hopped off the wall, faced me, and 
opened his shirt wide. 

“On the bare throat, covering the jugular, I 
saw a darker marking. He shifted so that the 
strong light fell directly on the flesh and there 
was a sullen reddish birthmark.” 

The civilian pointed across the deck and con¬ 
tinued : 

“It had somewhat the resemblance to the 
shadow that ventilator is casting on Number 
Four boat there behind the major’s chair.” 

The three officers looked to where the lifeboat 
hung on davits swung out, and then quickly 
turned their attention back to the speaker. 

“It was about that shape, and the lad said: 
‘It’s thirteen years old, sir. As old as Philip 
Wheeler. It’s my nag phani.’ ” 

“And in the white light the dark mark was the 
evil shadow of a cobra’s head, erect, hooded, and 
menacing. 

“ ‘That’s why I do not like them, though I am 
no snake funk, sir.’ He added apologetically: ‘I 


286 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


can’t help it. My father—something happened to 
my mother before I came and-’ ” 

“He stopped abruptly and dug the toe of his 
boot into the road. 

“ ‘This is why the boys call me Nag Phani, 
sir.’ ” 

“I noticed he touched his birthmark with an 
evident effort. 

“ ‘They tease me, sir, and say the cobra will 
strike me yet. He has his mark on me, sir.’ 

“I felt a chill stealing over me, not necessarily 
from the loneliness of the white grandeur that 
loomed and yawned about us. And it didn’t warm 
me when the boy cried out: ‘What’s that, sir! 
Did you hear it?’ 

“I had. It was an evil rustling in the black 
undergrowth beyond the low stone guard wall on 
which I had been seated. 

“I said, ‘Come on.’ 

“It was a welcome relief to meet soon after a 
native bullock cart, coming from Khandala, that 
passed us with a jingle of bells and the salaam 
of a turbaned head. 

“It was a shadowy stretch ahead, where the 
live jungle grew close up either side the dim road, 
and it didn’t decrease my heartbeats any when 
Phil volunteered to tell me of a certain holy cobra 
that lived in the wall of the school dormitory and 
was fed on warm milk by the pious pagans who 
made the boys’ beds. That is, it lived there until 
one night the American prefect, patrolling that 
sleeping dormitory, happened to discover it. 

“This anecdote, typical of East and West, has¬ 
tened us toward Khandala. Here at the edge of 



THE COBRA’S HOOD 


287 


the village we came out into a road I could ex¬ 
amine again—thank Heavens!—and struck the 
tank. This, a mirror for stars and leaning palms, 
we skirted, till we came abreast of a little yellow- 
domed temple of Shiva. Its sculptured cobras 
protruded uncannily in that blaze of still light. 

“The boy was on my left swinging his stick at 
an imaginary hockey ball and talking a blue 
streak. Then as we approached the shadow of 
a palm, which lay a black bar across the snowy 
road, I thought I saw something wriggling almost 
under our feet. I grabbed the boy and leaped 
back. And that something wriggled endlessly 
out of the palm’s shadow and into the moonlight 
toward Shiva’s temple. 

“It was a long, thick snake, whose back had 
recently been broken by a native cart. Phil, more 
experienced than I, knew its helplessness to rear 
and strike. Like a tiger on its wounded prey he 
sprang forward with his flashing hockey stick. 

“ ‘See, it’s a blooming cobra, sir!’ he whis¬ 
pered, as the yellowish belly lay upward. 

“ ‘Are you sure it’s quite dead, Phil?’ I warned, 
in what I tried to make my ordinary tone of 
voice. 

“Terror started to the boy’s eyes and he moved 
silently into the middle of the moonlight. ‘Please, 
sir, don’t speak so loud,’ he begged in a guilty 
whisper, and looked fearsomely around at the lis¬ 
tening shadows of temple and tank. 

“I must confess I looked my immediate black 
and white neighborhood over thoroughly. 

“ ‘Why, Phil?’ I asked, for the late anecdote 
had been told in a shrill boyish treble. 


288 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


“He turned those saddest of eyes on me and 
whispered so earnestly: 

“ ‘The mate, sir. You must not speak or he 
will recognize your voice and follow you into the 
barracks, sir.’ 

“Nervously I laughed aloud at this bit of na¬ 
tive wisdom. 

“The skin wasn’t completely ruined and I de¬ 
cided to see by daylight if it could be saved. Phil 
sagely advised: 

“ ‘Leave it here by the tank, sir, and let the 
mate find it.’ 

“Very reluctantly the boy lent me his hockey 
stick. Again he warned me: 

“ ‘You had better not, Sahib. You had better 
not, unless you kill the mate.’ 

“But, fool that I was, I wanted a cobra skin. 

“We entered the silent village and, before we 
came to the lights of the bazaar, turned down the 
blind lane that led to St. Mary’s gate. Here we 
ran into a milky way of fireflies that with myriad 
flash rose about our heads. And Phil said 
earnestly: 

‘ ‘ ‘ See, Sahib, they would warn you, too!’ 

“But it was pitch dark at the end of the lane 
and I didn’t see. 

“Phil accompanied me to my room off the boys’ 
dormitory, where I dropped the beast’s body by 
the door, and restored the hockey stick to its re¬ 
lieved owner. 

“The Yankee missioner at whose invitation I 
had come up to Khandala had the prefect’s room 
next door, and I sought his company. I needed, 
I thought, a smoke and a talk. 


THE COBRA'S HOOD 


289 


“I found Father Harry in his long white habit 
watching his charges at noisy bedtime games in 
the compound. 

“ ‘Oh, Nag Phani is a queer orphan/ He said 
at the end of my evening's experiences. ‘He was 
leading a Kim's life, when one of our Fathers in 
Poona met him in the native city. Sometimes I 
fancy he thinks in Hindustani yet. He's got the 
eyes of a young Hamlet, hasn't he? And that 
most uncanny birthmark! It gives me the creeps 
whenever I see that kid in swimming. 

“ ‘But it's bedtime for these babas.' And he 
blew his whistle. 

“I went back to my room and washed up in the 
cement bathroom I shared with Father Harry. 
This bathroom was a crude arrangement, accord¬ 
ing to our American standards. Just a couple of 
tubs of cold water. When finished, you over¬ 
turned the tub and the water flowed away into 
the jungle through a sluice in the wall. 

“Coming back to my room I heard outside in 
the dormitory the evening prayers in common, 
little Philip Wheeler's shrill voice leading and the 
sleepy mumble of the responses. Then there came 
a shriek and much laughter. I knew some dor¬ 
mitory trick had been pulled off. I heard Father 
Harry and excited whispers and the usual Sab¬ 
bath calm again. 

“When the lamps had been put out and only 
the night lights were gleaming at either end of 
the great barnlike structure, Father Harry came 
into my room for a good-night smoke, and he 
brought the body of my cobra and dumped it in 
a far corner. 


290 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


“ 4 Say, some of those imps borrowed this pet 
of yours and coiled it by young Wheeler’s cot. 
I’ll tend to them by the dawn’s early light. You 
must have heard Nag Phani discovering it. It’s 
a cruel trick to frighten him so, for he’s nervous 
enough. He’ll ride his nightmare again, I fear. 
Last Thursday I found him wandering in the 
outer gallery and he never woke when I led him 
back to his cot.’ 

‘ 4 Father found a match and continued: ‘ He has 
a queer history, like so many of his blood in India. 
There’s a yarn that his father shot a sacred cobra 
crawling in his compound, and next morning at 
breakfast another beast, like our friend sleeping 
in the corner, w T as discovered by Mrs. Wheeler. 
Phil was born that day, but he’ll carry that re¬ 
membrance of his mother’s last breakfast, on his 
throat till he goes west. 

“Nag Phani’s very wise in unexpected ways. 
Get him talking on native life some time and you 
listen. He’s a good little kid, though. You’ll see 
him up at the altar rails as regular as morning. 

“ ‘I’m going over to the chapel for a visit, and 
you may be the substitute Beast to watch my 
Sleeping Beauties. ’Night.’ 

“I answered some letters and then, as acting 
prefect, I decided to use my newly acquired pow¬ 
ers. I slipped off my bath slippers and, bare¬ 
footed, stepped onto the cool cement. It was vast 
and shadowy in the dormitory. Three night 
lights cast three cones of yellow over parts of 
cots and boys sleeping in the fifty and seven posi¬ 
tions they fancy. One of the lamps was smoking 
and I prowled down to trim it properly. Turning 


THE COBRA'S HOOD 


291 


back, I saw my tbirteen-year-old baba, a pink- 
pa jamaed little figure, stretched out in the slum¬ 
ber of the just. Even in sleep that dark marking 
marred Phil's throat, and it seemed to my imagi¬ 
nation to sway as the shadow of something alive 
and evil when the night light swung gently over¬ 
head. Yet Nag Phani looked childish and grace¬ 
ful, and I thought of Father Harry's remark, 4 He 
was leading a Kim's life when one of our Fathers 
found him living in the native city.' It made me 
see this missionary game from a better angle. 

44 Phil began to toss uneasily, and then he 
moaned in a funny, troubled way. I saw his hand 
go up to his marked throat. It was too sug¬ 
gestive, so I came away. 

44 I received another start entering my room 
and suddenly seeing that blasted corpse which 
Father Harry had flung so lifelike in the corner. 
I had half a mind to pitch it into the bathroom. 
I wish to heaven that I had!" 

Here the quiet voice of the young civilian broke 
and the major said impatiently: 

44 Go on. Go on, sir." 

It was noticeably growing lighter in the dark 
deck section where the casuals lay. Said the cap¬ 
tain, looking aloft: 

44 Old Abe's shifting her course. She must 
be swinging ninety degrees. Look where the 
moon is!" 

The big President Lincoln continued to swing 
until her new course brought the strong light full 
upon the young face and the white hair of the 
civilian. 

4 4 We're off on a new slant, and I hope it's a 


292 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


lucky one. But say, sir,” demanded the major, 
“put on that Eastern record and finish it.” 

“Yes,” resumed the civilian, lifting an end of 
his life preserver and shifting so as to get the 
moonlight out of his eyes. “That last start drove 
sleep away, and as it was hot as the Subway in 
August—you know what tropical nights are—I 
opened the bathroom and the dormitory doors to 
start an imaginary draft and settled myself in 
the depths of my steamer chair. 

“A blessed New York paper had come in the 
last mail and naturally I turned to the usual ante- 
season dope sheet. You fellows know the spring¬ 
time line they hand the fans, and I was deep in 
that stuff. 

“It was, maybe, nearer midnight than eleven 
and still as the Lusitania’s dining saloon at this 
very moment, when I heard yells from the boys’ 
dormitory. There was no mistake. Those were 
yells of mortal terror. 

“I sat up, and as I did there was a sound like 
the rustling of dead leaves back of my chair. I 
turned away from the light, and there, moving 
along the white wall of my room was a long, bulg¬ 
ing shadow. It kept coming on, and next second, 
within striking distance of my bare feet, swaying 
like a sunflower in the breeze, was the largest 
cobra I have ever seen. 

He reared a yard of sickish yellow underbody. 
I could have petted him on his spectacled head. 
But in those hard cold eyes there was something 
that froze me, body and limb. If I ever meet Shiva 
or Lucifer on the street I’ll recognize them. The 



THE COBRA’S HOOD 


293 


thought came at first that this was my dead cobra, 
but she lay beyond this live one. 

“That yell filled the dormitory again. There 
was a patter, patter of scared feet, and pink- 
pa jamaed Phil Wheeler was framed in my door¬ 
way. His eyes were open in dread. He mur¬ 
mured thickly, as those who talk in their sleep do: 
‘The cobra is after me, sir.’ He did not stop, 
but fled into the room toward me. 

“God helped me in that moment, for I made a 
spring and the boy fell over my arm. His ex¬ 
posed neck hung down, and then that demon in 
scales, as though he knew and had glided into po¬ 
sition, lurched forward. 

“My rush carried us into the half-awake dor¬ 
mitory, and I managed to drop Phil on an empty 
cot. 

“Father Harry and frightened boys and lights 
came. 

“Those fangs had landed on the birthmark! 

“Pure chance, yes—in God’s country; but 
India”—the young civilian made a gesture of 
finality—“is India.” 

Then he raised his hand significantly and ran 
it through the driven snow of his own hair. 

The next moment, like the rest of the group of 
casuals, he had been hurled from his deck chair 
and the noise of the end of the world burst on all 
ears. 

The transport President Lincoln shook and 
stopped and began to list. 


THE BLESSED DICE 


T HIS tale is told of that very last voyage for 
God that Father Francis of Xavier was ever 
to undertake. The Santa Cruz, with mighty bel¬ 
lied sail, was dipping through the yellow waters 
of the China Sea, and already the captain of this 
Portuguese galleon peered anxiously ahead, for 
he would make his landfall on the islands of San- 
cian ere night’s dangers came. Father Francis, 
his passenger, did likewise stand in the shadow of 
the great red sail and from his high place gaze 
with eyes of eagerness over the windy seas, for 
tile islands of Sancian meant to him the outer 
boundaries of a new and mighty land that he 
would fain win to his Master’s kingdom. 

Then Father Francis, perforce, came out of his 
dreams of loving conquest, for he heard with cer¬ 
titude the voice of passion, and it did bellow: “By 
the holy girdle of the holier Father Francis, spill 
the devil’s bones!” 

The Saint, hearing his own name used, most 
naturally looked about and then below him, and in 
a sheltered corner of the waist—for Father 
Francis stood at the break of the poop—he saw a 
group of lusty soldiers, and they did gamble ex¬ 
ceedingly loud. 

The voice, Father Francis noted, belonged to 
one whom his fellow soldiers repeatedly ad¬ 
dressed as Peter. Father Francis remarked him 


THE BLESSED DICE 


293 


as a bull of a man, stalwart and scarred and 
iron-gray—true type of the doughty soldier of 
Portugal. And he at once liked this gambling 
ram and resolved in his insatiable priestly heart 
that their acquaintanceship should ripen ere the 
islands of China crept over the weather horizon 
—should ripen to Peter’s and Christ’s benefit. 

So Father Francis went below and strolled 
modestly forward, stopping once to lay the hand 
of charity on a child’s sick brow. And the little 
one did sleep forthwith. When he came out into 
the open, cluttered deck space, he saw that the 
game was over, for the dice lay scattered, and 
this Peter sat alone, counting over a goodly gol¬ 
den sum. And the speech of Peter, sitting alone 
at the table, was not a prayer of thanksgiving, 
though it did concern saints and sacred things. 

Nevertheless Father Francis came as one over¬ 
deaf, and courteously begged leave of the soldier 
to rest a while there on the vacant bench. Peter 
the soldier, with his eyes held by the gains before 
him, did acquiesce with a rough, impious word. 
Then he jumped to guilty attention, scattering 
his many coins about his tasseled boots, and his 
face reddened like an angry sunset when he rec¬ 
ognized the gentle Father Francis sitting smiling 
vis-a-vis. 

But the father at once busied himself in help¬ 
ing Peter recover his scattered winnings, and he 
did congratulate the burly soldier on his evident 
favors of fortune. For Father Francis had the 
most winning way in the wide East when he 
wished to win back a soul to Grod. 

Now he casually recalled pleasant nights of 


296 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


Navarre and old Paris days and games that he, 
a young student, played. And Peter did think 
in his blunt way that holy Father Francis knew 
not what manner of man he had chosen for his 
confidences, else he would depart. 

But Father Francis talked on, seemingly un¬ 
enlightened ; and Peter listened, at first patiently 
and then eagerly, to the attractive words and at¬ 
tractive affairs the holy Father did speak of. And 
when the gong boomed, calling the hour of meal, 
the soldier brushed up a full fourth of his coins 
and offered them, with these words: 

“ Master Father Francis, I am no old man, and, 
please our God, I shall shake gold out of these 
devil’s bones for many a year. But for luck’s sake 
I would very much that you accept of these, a 
part of an honest soldier’s gains, and use them 
on some of your most worthy charities.” He 
pushed the money across the table. 

Father Francis with fair words of gratitude 
thanked Peter. 

‘ i Peter, God’s child, I shall pray that our 
Master, in His Wisdom, send you rare fortune.” 
He looked down at the scattered idle dice, and 
then he looked up into the bearded face of the 
old warrior, and took his departure, still smiling. 

Peter treasured in his heart those last words 
of the holy Father, for the whole East knew that 
what things Father Francis said happened. He 
resolved impetuously that he would increase his 
winnings ere dawn and Sancian came. 

So he sought companions and fearlessly wa¬ 
gered his gold on the toss and turn of the fickle 
cubes. And when Dame Fortune did look his 


THE BLESSED DICE 


297 


companions’ way, Peter profanely doubled his 
stakes, holding the words of Father Francis a 
guarantee of fortune’s speedy change. 

Into the day played the soldiers, and when it 
was come morning’s strong light, Peter perforce 
stopped, and what he did possess was his sword 
and the hardy garments on his back. Gone were 
yesterday’s golden gains and, worse, after them 
had been thrown Peter’s final real and a bag of 
ducats entrusted to his care to be delivered to 
a merchant in Sancian Island. 

Already the high green slope of that port 
loomed over the forward horizon, and a few hours 
later Peter, the penniless, was first to put foot 
on shore. He knew not where he could find his 
evening drink and food. He dared not seek the 
shop of the merchant. Instead he fled to the 
town’s outer parts, and there along the shore he 
strode and strode. 

Truly Peter repented himself for his foolish 
faith in that Father Francis; but his robust 
words, though they soothed, did not bring him 
back a real. 

At dark Peter resolved desperate resolves. 
With these black thoughts hot upon him the 
soldier turned and sought the hill’s trees, where 
in solitude he might lose his sole remaining pos¬ 
session. 

But in the lonely jungle awaited him the last 
person he wished to see. It was the same Father 
Francis, standing expectantly there, and he did 
say: 

“ Peter. Peter, come and eat. I do expect you 
overlong. ’ ’ 


298 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


Father Francis beckoned the desolate soldier 
to come and sit on the fallen palm beside him, 
and the father offered him tempting food. 

Then, while the hungry Peter took this, Father 
Francis spoke freely of the flighty donna, Fickle 
Fortune, and sometimes he nodded slightly when 
the soldier Peter did most affirmatively agree with 
his conclusions. 

Finally, when Peter ate no more, Father 
Francis expressed a mild curiosity to see the un¬ 
lucky dice that had brought swift disaster on poor 
Peter’s wealth. 

Peter did shamedly produce them, and Father 
Francis, taking the cup, shook the cubes most 
dexterously. Peter’s practiced eye noticed this 
admiringly. The soldier recalled Father Francis ’ 
allusions on the galleon, and Peter looked up into 
Father Francis’ face and grinned broadly—the 
first smile that had enriched poor Peter’s coun¬ 
tenance since evil had befallen him. Yet Father 
Francis did not frown—yea, he laughed pleas¬ 
antly. 

Holding the numbered ivories in the palm of 
his left hand, Father Francis rose and moved his 
right hand in the air above them. 

He handed the dice back to their owner, saying 
the while: ‘ 4 Peter, always it is the way of our 
Captain to bring much good out of a little passing 
evil. So take Don Lucifer’s bones and seek your 
late companions, and with these coins which you 
did give me last evening for some worthy charity 
play them another time. Play them”—and 
Father Francis looked at the old soldier warn- 
ingly —‘ 4 play them till the wine in thy cup tastes 


THE BLESSED DICE 


299 


sour. Then stop and seek me. I’ll await you 
here.” 

And to impress Peter the soldier, Father 
Francis repeated: 

Till the wine in thy cup tastes sour. Go, 
Peter, I would pray for poor men like us.” 

It was only on the way toward the lights of 
Sancian that Peter recalled his forgotten design 
and remembered it was the food and the words 
of Father Francis that had given chase to his 
black resolve. 

Quickly Peter found his kind in the low huts 
where the rude Portuguese with cup and cubes did 
will to pass the night. 

Peter challenged his fellow players of the eve¬ 
ning before, and they accepted gladly. Into the 
hours they quarreled and gambled, and a tide of 
coins flowed toward the hands of Peter. 

Then came a pause in the game, when Peter 
thirstily lifted his cup, and his sweet wine did 
turn on his lips exceedingly bitter. He put down 
the cup with an open expression and called for 
another. Again the taste of the wine was not 
sweet, and Peter remembered the warning of 
Father Francis. 

So he pocketed his treasure and his dice, re¬ 
fusing further games. Nor did his companions 
urge him overearnestly, for they had between 
them scarcely a score of ducats. 

Up rose Peter the soldier, and into the late 
night he plunged. The sentinel stars kept watch 
over the white beach of Sancian, and by their 
lights he retraced his steps toward the black still 
jungle. 


300 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


He saw a yellow lantern’s gleam ahead, and 
coming near he saw the Father on his knees, his 
habit loose to his waist, and his shoulders cruelly 
cut where he had lashed himself that Peter might 
win—and be won. 

Said the Saint: 

“My child, count thy gains. Count them 
closely. ’ 9 

Ashamed, Peter reckoned the silver and the 
gold with which his blouse had sagged. When 
he came to the last real he did toss up the total, 
and it tallied close to the double sum Peter had 
had yesterday—his own money and his trust for 
the merchant of Sancian. 

Gratefully the soldier would have fallen on his 
knees before Father Francis had not the Father 
raised him, and taking his broad hand as though 
it were a trusting little lad’s, Father Francis 
pleaded: 

“Peter, Peter, I have my price in your win¬ 
nings, and it is that you now kneel to God’s poor 
priest and pay to God your debt of repentance.” 

Father Francis did leave Peter, and when the 
soldier called him over, Father Francis came. 
And there in the faint light of a new day Peter 
made his peace and received God’s pardon on 
many wild years. 

Father Francis laid a light penance on the 
penitent Peter, for during the night he had laid 
a heavy one on himself. 

Then Father Francis warned Peter to seek at 
once the merchant’s villa. 

The soldier fumbled in his blouse and brought 


THE BLESSED DICE 


301 


out the several dice. These he did offer to Father 
Francis, who marveled: 

“Peter, God’s friend, would you tempt me? I 
might in need seek the gambler’s table and lose 
what were not mine! ’ ’ 

But Peter assured Father Francis with an un¬ 
witting oath that he would sooner grasp the 
devil’s tail than shake these devil’s bones any 
longer. And then Father Francis did take them, 
quoting dryly: 

“ ‘By the holy girdle of Father Francis,’ 
Master Peter, I know not what need I’ll have of 
dice, but I will gladly keep them as a token of 
friendship. ’ ’ 

It were these worn dice, found a fortnight later 
among Father Francis’ mean effects, that did 
give rise to unworthy rumors among the Portu¬ 
guese friends of Lucifer. But never a one of these 
rumors was ever uttered twice by any of that 
tribe in the presence of the burly Peter. And 
he did live a score of years after Father Francis 
of Xavier went Home from the sands of Sancian. 


THE COMING OF AMERICA 


D URING the tiresome climb up the hill of con¬ 
valescence—for tropical fever turns taps 
and drains the last dregs of strength away—any 
break in the monotony of veranda chair, meals, 
palmy-edged horizons, and the lighting of the 
Southern Cross, receives an open-armed welcome. 
But the event of events is the arrival of the post¬ 
man, or ‘ 1 dakwallah, ’’ as this brown-legged indi¬ 
vidual^ distant Yankee equivalent is called. 

So this afternoon, when the Sick Sahib saw the 
khaki uniform and red thrban come down the 
Prince of Wales ’ Drive and turn into the shaded 
compound of Bishop’s House, he naturally bright¬ 
ened. And, later, when Pascale, his venerable 
“boy,” barefooted and silent as ever, laid the 
mail by his side, he gave it languidly, what he 
would have called in his younger days, ‘ 4 the once 
over.” 

There was a “chit” from his Rector, hoping 
that he might soon be able to return from the 
Hills to take up his prefecting and teaching 
again, and there was a postal that made the cryp¬ 
tic remark, “By the last word from God’s 
country, the Giants have it cinched, but whom 
they will meet in October is still uncertain; Indi¬ 
ans or Yankees.” And the third bit of mail was 
a letter in a large boyish hand. This the Sick 
Sahib puzzled over as he slit it open, for the 
handwriting might equally have been attributed 

302 


THE COMING OF AMERICA 


303 


to three of the “brownies” of his neglected class¬ 
room, but it proved to be the workmanship of 
Rozarinho de Quadros. 

After the usual politely expressed hope that 
“dear Reverend Father’s” health was mending, 
there was a rather frank remark about “that dis¬ 
gusting Master” who was substituting, and “the 
new rot” he had brought into Sixth Standard. 

Then this paragraph: “And since you were 
took down with the fever a new boy has come 
into our class. He is of my age, fourteen. And 
his father is come out to be Consul Sahib for 
America here in Bombay. He is a very mischie¬ 
vous chap and he is not like any other baba (boy) 
in the whole school. He is more lively even than 
Kazi Fatallah. He speaks bally rotten English 
—excuse, please—like you Americans do some¬ 
times, sir, and he says he is a full blood Sioux.” 

The Sick Sahib lay back in his steamer chair 
and a healthy grin brightened up his particular 
corner of the long stone veranda. For St. Mary’s 
School compound held boys of many nationalities, 
but among its five hundred, during a year’s patri¬ 
otic investigation, he had been unable to discover 
any fellow countrymen. As these British Indian 
“babas” held as dogma that all Yankees who 
were not cowboys, were Red Indians, a reason 
for this new arrival’s boasted red blood was 
easily found. And the Sick Sahib felt within him 
a sudden desire to get well quickly and make the 
acquaintance of this “full blood Sioux.” 

But it was to be a “full blooded” fortnight 
later before he was sufficiently restored to leave 
the episcopal hospitality of Bishop’s House and 



304 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


be driven through Poona’s swarming bazaars to 
catch the Bombay Mail. 

When some hours later the train slowed into 
the coo] of Karjot Station, the Sick Sahib looked 
out the compartment window for a boy with the 
morning paper. Then he remembered sadly this 
was India’s coral strand. But he viewed better 
the usual bright-colored scramble of new passen¬ 
gers, and the khaki-skinned venders, screaming 
in the vernacular their wares of native sweets 
and sandwiches and bottled soda. These, offer¬ 
ing their trays to the hungry and thirsty, gave 
a centipede appearance to the railway carriages, 
as hundreds of brown arms reached out and bar¬ 
gained. 

Then it was, he heard a familiar voice, “I say, 
my Father Sahib! Oh, this is pukka!” And 
Rahim Peer Lad'uk, a devout, though diminutive, 
Follower of the Prophet, and a day scholar mem¬ 
ber of Sixth Standard, came up to the compart¬ 
ment. He was in evident holiday attire, for his 
fez was green and gold; his vest, blue silk; and 
beneath it, his “Prince Albert,” long and white; 
and the same was true of his slim, immaculate 
trousers, that stopped shortly above bare ankles 
and bright red leather slippers. 

“I go down to Bombay with you.” And he 
motioned imperiously to his coolie to deposit his 
various bags and tiny boxes in this compartment. 

It came out as the train quickened, that Rahim 
Peer Laduk had remembered something. 

“Please, sir, I know one piece of news since 
you were took down and went up to Poona in 
the Hills. A strange baba has come into our 


THE COMING OF AMERICA 


305 


classroom. He is of your caste, American, a 
pukka Red Indian, and he has had many adven¬ 
tures, sir, for one so young.’’ 

Rahim’s hand went up and removed his gor¬ 
geous fez to lay it on the seat beside him. He 
went on more freely: 

“One adventure he was telling out in the com¬ 
pound between classes, and I heard all, sir. His 
Red Indian name is Bear—Bear—” 

The Sick Sahib suggested, “Cat?” 

Rahim accepted instantly. 

“Yes; my Father Sahib, that is it exactly. But 
how did Father know?” 

“I guessed it, but go on. What happened?” 

“Once one day, said this Bear Cat, when he 
lived in Cohoes village, which is in the wild 
thirsty blood—how you say it, Father Sahib?— 
country of the fierce Iroquois, he was in a little 
Christian mosque, assisting the Black Rope at his 
services.” 

“Black what?” questioned the Sick Sahib 
sharply. 

“The Black Rope,” replied the Mohammedan 
boy solemnly, “for, surely, it is the name Red 
Indians give you Christian ‘imans.’ ” 

“Oh! then it’s ‘Black Robe’,” said the Sick 
Sahib, suddenly enlightened. 

“Yes; then this Bear Cat came to the time in 
the services when he got up to change the Koran 
—I think Christians call it that—from one side 
of the altar to the other.” 

“Koran!” exclaimed the Sahib, who had lost 
all interest in the side-show sights, offered gratis 
by the train window. “Koran!” Then, “Oh! 


306 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


The Book,” as he realized Rahim Peer Laduk 
was attempting to describe the usual activities of 
an altar boy, moving the Missal before the 
Gospel. 

“Yes, Father Sahib, this Bear Cat he had the 
Koran grasped in two of his hands, when one 
band of fierce Iroquois—and they are the fiercest 
of all Red Indians, sir—came pell-mell down to¬ 
ward the mosque, shooting arrows and crying 
their war words. Bear Cat told us them but I 
do not speak their ‘bat,’ so I cannot tell you them 
again. But, of course, Sahib, you know the war 
words of the fierce Iroquois Red Indians?” 

The American nodded, accepting the implied 
knowledge. 

This small Mohammedan’s black eyes were wide 
open, for he could see the next scene. 

“And, please, sir, while he was grasping in two 
hands that book, one arrow came flying in tight 
and it was going into the back of the ‘iman’ when 
Bear Cat stuck out the Koran and the arrow 
stuck in it and it caught his hand too. There 
was a blooming panic in the mosque. The little 
‘batchas’ cried out, and their mothers said loud 
words, as women do at such times, sir. But Bear 
Cat was not a funk. Unmindful of the blood and 
the pain, he pulled away his bleeding hand and 
went out alone to meet the fierce tribe of Iro¬ 
quois.” 

Rahim went on as though he was repeating a 
well-beloved passage. 

“And he said to them: ‘Halt! I am Bear Cat, 
the Chief’s son. You have drawn my young blood 
and you have frightened my women folks, and, 


THE COMING OF AMERICA 


307 


believe me, you shall bite of the dust. ’ But just 
then—and it was jolly lucky, I think—Bear Cat's 
father, Chief Lone Horse, and many other Sioux 
braves rode pell-mell upon their ponies down the 
Troy Road and killed out all those fierce Iroquois 
dead. I have finished, Father Sahib." 

Rahim sat back, and picking up his trim green 
and gold fez, replaced it. Only the rattle of the 
rails was audible in the train compartment after 
this slaughter, till the boy added: 

“This new Sioux baba has told us many more 
‘chota cannies’ (short stories) of his life in the 
plains, and he is always willing to tell more. He 
says it is a very dangerous country, America, 
and he is jolly glad to come out here to our India, 
where it is safer, sir." 

The Sick Sahib thought it pertained to the bet¬ 
ter part to let this observation pass, at least till 
he had met this imaginative ‘ ‘ Sioux baba ’ ’ in the 
flesh. 

The Mail now was crossing Thana Creek, leav¬ 
ing the Asian mainland for the sea islands, and 
before it stopped completely in Thana Station, 
Rahim Peer Laduk had suddenly forgotten dan¬ 
gerous Red Indians in a more pressing, personal 
danger. For he was balancing himself, boy 
fashion, over the edge of the window, yelling in 
shrill vernacular to a vender of native sweets. 

The Sick Sahib listened interestedly to this 
pan-native dialogue, for it was still a novelty to 
watch the instant switch from English speech and 
English ways to native tongues and native man¬ 
ners, that boys of all color in British India 
possess. 


308 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


In the middle of the bargaining, Rahim with¬ 
drew himself into the compartment to announce: 
“Wali is here, Father Sahib.” And the next 
moment, the brown, handsome face of Wali Shiv- 
ram Goolam, a Brahmin classmate, appeared at 
the doorway of the train compartment. 

He salaamed ceremoniously. 

This high caste boy, maybe an inch less than 
Rahim in height, wore a high piled yellow turban. 
The Brahmin cord showed across his brown chest, 
and the spotless “dhoti” looped over each bare 
thigh. His stockings were nature’s own, and 
each little big toe held in place the comfortable 
sandal. 

The two boys spoke hurried Hindustani and 
the Sick Sahib caught enough of the conversation 
to understand that the Mohammedan was telling 
the Hindu to see his father at once and get per¬ 
mission to travel the rest of the way to Bombay 
in the Sahib’s compartment. Wali disappeared 
with promptness and, as the train began to move, 
he reappeared and was immediately dragged into 
the compartment by Rahim. 

Wali was breathless, but not incapable of doing 
ample justice to the sticky piles of native sweets 
that Rahim had deposited on the long seat. 

The Sick Sahib, shortly after his arrival in 
India, had made a resolution, and so he declined 
to partake of the offered sweets. 

“I know, Father, what you would accept, if 
Rahim offered it to you.” Wali’s sunshine smile 
was turned upon the Sahib. “It is what you 
Americans call ‘the hot dog,’ is it not? How do 
your native venders say it? ‘They are all hot. 


THE COMING OF AMERICA 


309 


Red hot. Get them over here. Hot dogs! R-r-red 
hot! ’ ’ 

The Sick Sahib suffered a relapse, for that, 
coming from an Indian Brahmin boy, burst like 
shrapnel in this train compartment. 

“Wali Goolam! Where in the world did you 
learn that ‘spiel’ about ‘hot dogs?’ ” demanded 
the Sahib, dropping unconsciously into American. 

But Wali looked at his Mohammedan seatmate, 
and both fez and turban nodded knowingly. 

A sure suspicion came to their Class Master. 

“I know now, you needn’t tell me. There is 
only one possible source of such information in 
St. Mary’s compound and—” 

“Yes; Bear Cat Shaw,” said Rahim, and Wali 
Shivram Goolam repeated the name almost jeal¬ 
ously. Then he added: 

“This new boy told us also that the best place 
in the States to get these ‘hot dogs’ is at a won¬ 
derful island nearby New York.” The Hindu 
boy’s eyes grew wistful and he repeated solemnly, 
‘ ‘ I would very much, Father Sahib, wish to make 
a pilgrimage to this island of wonders, where 
such delights are!” 

“ ‘Island of wonders’ near New York! I do 
not place it. What did Shaw tell you?” 

Wali drew his bare legs up under him, and 
settled thus, like a boy Buddha, readily began to 
retell these delights. Rahim ate contentedly, a 
far-away look in his dark eyes as though he were 
seeing heavenly sights that lie under far Western 
horizons. 

“Young Dickie told me that this island of worn 
ders is right by the black water and you go out 


310 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


to it by trams that run under the river and under 
the very bazaars of, of—” 

“ Brooklyn V’ volunteered the Sahib. 

“Yes: if that is the name of the district of 
New York City, where many of the high caste 
‘New Yorki’ have their bungalows. 

“He said out once one day that all communities 
mingle down there, and the crowds at the bathing 
ghats of the ocean are thick as at Benares, sir. 

“There are two big compounds on this island 
and you pay silver to get in. One of them has 
a tower made of electric lights, but it is the dif¬ 
ferent things there that are ripping. There is 
nothing sad, sir. You ride in boats and you dash 
down a chute of wood pell-mell into real water 
and you do not get wet. That seems impossible 
but he is willing to wager that it is so. But it 
is the other compound that I imagine I would 
prefer, sir. Young Shaw called it ‘The Steeple¬ 
chase Gardens,’ or like that, where you can enjoy 
yourself with fifty different delights for one 
rupee. 

“There are horses of wood and iron, sir, on 
which natives ride and race other horses of wood 
and iron and the one who is jolly lucky to come 
home ahead gets another ride free. And there 
are other wooden horses, clothed like the stallions 
of rajahs, Father Sahib, and on these you go 
around and around and around—but you do not 
grow dizzy, sir—and each time you pass there is 
a ring in a thing and if you pull out the black 
ones you get nothing, but if you pull out the 
golden one—only young Dickie says it is not real 
gold—you get another ride free. And there is a 


THE COMING OF AMERICA 


311 


swimming bath, and Dickie says that it is the 
largest in the world and many of the natives bathe 
there, and Dickie says that he dove into it often 
from a height of more than fifteen feet. Do you 
think this is so, or is he a bit of a pill, sir?” 

The Sahib parried this by saying: 

4 ‘We will have to see young Dickie diving at 
Mahalakshmi Baths to answer that. But from 
what you babas say of this chap, I would not be 
surprised.” 

“But it is in the evening, when more natives 
than there are in Bombay come down to this 
island of wonders that it must be more beautiful 
than the Taj Mahal, and I have seen that two 
times, and once by moonlight, Father Sahib. 

“The towers, like temple towers, are all cov¬ 
ered with strings of electric lights, and cords of 
electric lights, lakhs of them, sir, make the fronts 
of buildings look ripping when it is night—yel¬ 
lows and reds and greens and some blues.' He 
says it looks like New Jerusalem, which is the 
Christian place of Heaven.” 

Wali Goolam dropped his hands into his lap 
and unconsciously impersonating a contemplative 
Buddha, sat silent for seconds. Then he spoke 
wistfully: 

“I would like to see that wonder island some 
day. But, my Padre Sahib, you have seen this 
island once?” 

“Yes; at least that,” truthfully replied this 
native New Yorker Sahib. 

“I do not know its name, but you do, don’t 
you, Father Sahib?” 


312 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


44 Some Americans call it ‘the nation’s play¬ 
ground.’ ” 

“No; that is not the name Bear Cat used,” 
said Rahim suddenly. “That is not the name. 
I was trying hard to remember it out, while young 
Wali was telling you. It is like—it is, I have it 
now! ’ ’ 

The little Mohammedan paused and then just 
as a guard on “The Seabeach Express” does at 
the end of the line, he bawled out: 

“Coney Island!” 

Instinctively the Sick Sahib completed the ex¬ 
pression—‘ ‘ All out. Watch your step! ’ ’ 

“Beg your pardon, Father Sahib?” questioned 
both boys politely. 

“I was talking American then. You English- 
speaking babas would not understand.” 

Rahim sighed. Then: 

“Maybe, I also will some day see this island of 
Coney, for I would very much like to race Wali 
on those iron and wooden horses, but—” and he 
said it sorrowfully—“but, 0 rot! we must return 
to the school so soon.” 

And he was right, for already the Mail was on 
Bombay Island. At Byculla Station in the city, 
Wali returned to his father’s compartment and 
Rahim Peer Laduk engaged a blue-clothed coolie, 
and he and his various small luggage departed. 
The Sick Sahib gathered his own belongings, for 
Victoria Terminus was only minutes away. 

Out of the Terminus, the Sick Sahib piled into 
a rickety old carriage, and gave but a casual eye 
to the green vastness of the Maidan, where down 
to the distant fringe of feathery palm, that hid 



THE COMING OF AMERICA 


313 


the eternal blue of the Arabian Sea, bare-limbed 
cricketers batted; and to the strange wares and 
precious offered to the ‘ 4 subway crush ” that 
flowed by the bazaars of Shaik Memon Street. 

At Grant Road, the “gharri” was halted by 
cross traffic, and, as usual, a Biblical beggar as¬ 
sailed the occupant with his repeated “Bakhshish, 
Sahib!” Charitably, the Sick Sahib tossed a cop¬ 
per “pice” to the pitiful boy leper, holding up 
his stumps of hands, and almost instantly saw 
that several of the rusted lad’s companions were 
afflicted with the same unwholesomeness. Too 
late he remembered the advice he had forgotten 
—when you would give an Eastern alms, look 
before you loosen, and see that the recipient is 
solitary as the sparrow on the housetop. Other¬ 
wise ! 

The Sick Sahib, having exhausted his Hindu¬ 
stani, was relieved to hear a vigorous young 
voice speak unscented native words, and the beg¬ 
gars ceased from troubling. 

Trevor Casey swung on to the “gharri” step 
and switching into English, greeted his Class 
Master warmly. Then he settled himself into the 
little half seat opposite, with the explanatory: 

“Please, Father, I finished up my errand at 
the Jamsetjee Jeejeebhoy Hospital for Father 
Mac and I am going back to the compound with 
you.’ ’ 

The Sick Sahib nodded permission to this 
brown-skinned Eurasian, in whose veins flowed 
the blood of Erin and Hindustan. And as they 
rolled along Parel Road, the Sahib said deliber¬ 
ately: 


314 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


“Quiet in the compound, baba, these days?” 

“0 my word, Father, but a ripping surprise 
awaits you! But, wait—and I have learned much, 
and now I know your game of baseball.” 

Trevor pretended to catch an imaginary 
“liner” in a manner his companion noted would 
have carried him swiftly back to the J. J. Hos¬ 
pital. 

“I know all the positions on the scouting side 
—the bowler and the backstop, and the other 
partners out; one base and two base and three 
base and the little stop. And then the three part¬ 
ners ’way back in the field. You see, Father, 
what I know. Your baseball is not unlike round¬ 
ers, sir, which we used to play as little Third 
Division kiddies over in the Aga Khan Compound, 
but I do not like it when we are partners in and 
the ball comes too tight. Nor do the other chaps, 
sir, except him.” 

“Him?” questioned the Sahib, pretending igno¬ 
rance where he held certitude. 

“Oh! he is the ripping surprise. He is teach¬ 
ing us baseball, but you wait till we come by our 
compound and you shall see.” 

Trevor Casey lifted up a grinning brown mug. 
Then he noticed that the “gharri” had dropped 
into the usual funeral pace. He turned to the 
Mohammedan driver and, Kim-like, shot out in 
the vernacular a native reflection on the horsed 
wooden legs. There came an indignant denial 
from the “gharriwallah’s” seat, accompanied by 
a vigorous lashing of the poor beast’s back. The 
“gharri” could easily stay with an auto funeral 
at its new pace, and Trevor had gained his ob- 


THE COMING OF AMERICA 


315 


jeetive. He winked knowingly at his returning 
Prefect. 

Off: Parel Road the old carriage tossed, and 
crossing the bridge of the G. I. P. tracks, the Sick 
Sahib caught first sight of St. Mary’s towers 
above the toddy palms. 

Just as the “gharri” turned out of Nesbit Road 
and into the school entrance, Trevor arose. With 
an instinctive “Kalos, hai, Sahib”—for this 
Casey was half native and usually thought in 
Hindustani—the Eurasian boy bade good-bye and 
leaped out of the carriage. 

A brother American greeted the Sick Sahib, 
and added: 

“Well, there is a surprise here for you. This 
Asiatic zoo has acquired a young Harlem goat. 
He’s in your Division and you’re w T elcome—” 

At that moment both Prefects swung sharply, 
for they had heard the crash of glass in the com¬ 
pound. They saw a small white figure tearing 
down toward what they recognized as “first” on 
an Asian diamond, and St. Anne’s Church—that 
most thoughtlessly had been built in short right 
—presented a stained-glass window recently orna¬ 
mented with a jagged hole. 

The Prefect on duty left hurriedly, saying: 

6 ‘ That is he, all right. ’ ’ But he added proudly: 
“Did you see that drive! No other baba in Bom¬ 
bay could line a ball there. I’ll send him up to 
you for a disciplinary talk in ten minutes.” 

The Sick Sahib sought his own room to change 
into cool wdiite habit, and to await the coming of 
Young America, who seemed to be already ar¬ 
rived. 


IN THE DAK BUNGALOW 


“T3ACHCHHA” COLLINS, the same old baby 
-D pink giant as of old, though now a Deputy 
and important, had come in his bullock-drawn 
tonga an hour ago and carried off Almaida—Dr. 
Almaida, R.A.M.C.—to the Railway Dance at 
Lonavli. Flight Lieutenant Ivan Guest had 
begged off, because he had lately taken to walking 
with a cane—and would for the rest of his days. 

He was tired also after the concert, speeches, 
and hip, hip, hurrahs of the royal reception that 
his old school had given him—St. Mary’s first 
D.S.O. in the War—and the bandaged leg was 
throbbing like the motor of his own machine. 

It was hot, even for May, here in the black 
ease of the dak bungalow, or guest-house of the 
school, but stretched out in pink pajamas and 
with comfy “chappels” on his feet, he lit another 
“Scissors” and thought resignedly of the stifling 
war hospitals in Basra and sticky Bombay. 

Half-way up “The Saddles” a jackal howled 
and a whole chorus of pariah dogs, somewhere in 
Khandala village, savagely answered. Some¬ 
thing hissed in the looming mango tree and a 
bulbul fluttered away shrilly. “Jimmy Croak¬ 
ers” sang; the engine of a freight train whistled 
at the Reversing Station; a damp bat flapped in 
his face. From the far end of the village came 

316 



IN THE DAK BUNGALOW 


317 


monotonous Indian songs and tlie monotonous 
tom-toming of a native feast. A mosquito 
hummed, hovering over his right ear. “I say, 
young aeroplane, don’t you attempt a landing 
here. Juldi jao.” His hand swept up and the 
humming grew faint. 

“Lieutenant Sahib,” said a voice, and a white- 
turbaned figure appeared in the black doorway 
at the side of the latticed gallery. He told his 
servant he had not called, and the doorway was 
black again. 

The same old hill station, thought the Lieuten¬ 
ant drowsily, as the warm night, with its skeleton 
of a breeze, fanned him. Same as when, an un¬ 
honored little St. Mary’s boy, he had spent his 
May and December holidays here in Khandala. 

Then he was paddling up the stream of Mem¬ 
ory. The same dear sounds and the same neigh¬ 
boring peaks and the same great ravine, looming 
black, and their recollections of the Old Boys. 
Swimming in Second Division Tank and the gray 
apes, high up the brown black cliffs, chattering 
their disapproval. Mangoes in May, emerald 
green, and the delightful, indigestible pickle the 
“babalog” (the boy folks) made from these 
fruits. “Gurkha” Nelson’s always tasted the 
best, and he always shared with his “tuck 
friends.” Climbing “Duke’s Nose” over there, 
after guavas in December, and the hooded cobra 
that had struck above the top of his puttees. How 
little “Gurkha” had promptly stabbed the triple 
puncture, and let Death flow harmlessly out. That 
morning in cold Dhobi Tank, before the sun crept 
down the high sides of “The Ravine,” when 


318 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


cramps had doubled him up, and “Gurkha” it 
was again who had splashed out as the others 
funked, and had pushed and pulled him into the 
shoals. How “Gurkha” had blushed, when the 
Prefect had jollied him about saving his “tuck 
friend.” 

The convalescent caught himself whispering: 
“Why, by Jove! I haven’t heard a bally word of 
that chap Nelson since I was ordered to Meso¬ 
potamia ! ’ ’ 

There was no sound on the path, but there in 
the darkness, where the fireflies signaled cease¬ 
lessly—that bowlegged walk could only belong to 
one in Asia!—was little “Gurkha” Nelson. 
“Gurkha” looked man-grown and grayer and 
there was a wistful patience about him. 

“I say ‘Gurkha’ Nelson, old chap! I’m jolly 
glad you gave me a look up!” cried the Lieuten¬ 
ant delightedly, “Why! I’ve just been-” 

Then, “My blooming leg!” and he was again 
nursing that member that had won him his deco¬ 
ration by stopping its bit of Turkish anti-aircraft 
lead some several thousand feet above Bagdad. 

‘ ‘ Salaam, Ivan baba. ” “ Gurkha ’ ’ Nelson gave 
the old familiar greeting, but there was a wistful 
softness in his voice, such as one in great sorrow 
might use. 

He settled himself on the third step at Guest’s 
feet. One name brought up another, and they 
talked as only Sahibs do in India; that land of 
infrequent meetings. 

The Lieutenant eagerly told the latest of this 
chap and that, who wore the khaki—all but a few 
years ago white-clad fellow-scholars at dusty St. 



IN THE DAK BUNGALOW 


319, 


Mary’s while “Gurkha” listened and occasionally 
answered Guest’s questions of recent history of 
friends in the Railway and Post and Telegraph, 
or struggling clerks in Bombay or Poona. 

Then, getting into personal waters, the Lieu¬ 
tenant proudly mentioned the money he had come 
into, when his cousin in far-off “Blighty” died, 
and Nelson, seemingly emboldened, sketched his 
struggles to make his monthly rupees last. At 
last, blurted, like a boy’s confession, “Gurkha” 
told of his failure of a trust, and he concluded 
wistfully: 

“Yes, Ivan baba, I returned all but a fraction 
of what I took, but justice requires it should be 
satisfied in full, and, like a lot of other things, 
I didn’t, when I could.” 

He paused, then looking at Ivan with tremend¬ 
ous wistfulness, said: 

“I, I came back to you, and I thought perhaps 

for the sake of the old days- Ah! You of the 

air are generous. Would you do this much for 
me, Ivan baba?” 

He laid a slip of paper at the Lieutenant’s feet. 

“Do it, and I’ll be eternally grateful.” 

Flight Lieutenant Guest had listened, ill at 
ease, and now he reached down impetuously, 
wincing as injured muscles stretched, to take up 
the paper. 

Then he noticed he was alone. 

“I say, ‘Gurkha’! Nelson Sahib, halt! Ex¬ 
plain! Why! Why!” The Lieutenant gazed 
about him, but the dak bungalow and the path 
were empty and black in the night, as silently 
black as the sides of the towering “Saddles.” 



320 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


“Deucedly queer! But the little beggar always 
was shy.” 

The rattle of a tonga distracted Guest. It grew 
louder down the road from Lonavli. A yellow 
light swayed drunkenly around the corner into 
the compound; the rattle stopped before the dak 
bungalow; and the bullock breathed heavily. 
“Keep The Home Fires Burning” sang a bass 
that the Lieutenant had no difficulty in recog¬ 
nizing. 

“Bachchha” Collins stopped; then he was rest¬ 
ing his bulk on the step, where “Gurkha” Nelson 
had sat a moment ago. 

Dapper Dr. Almaida sank into the low deck¬ 
chair, with the exclamation ‘ ‘ Sickening!’ ’ and be¬ 
gan to pour out a dismal tale of the dance and 
the poor grade of dancers. 

Suddenly he exclaimed: 

“I say, Ivan baba, ’member little Nelson? He 
was clerking for those stationers, Thacker & Co., 
on Hornby Road. ’Member, the chaps called him 
‘Gurkha,’ he was so small? You used to be ‘tuck 
friends’ with him too.” 

The Lieutenant nodded with interest. 

“Well, a partner told me to-night that he went 
the fever route three months ago in the J. J. 
Hospital. Clever chap, careless, but he wasn’t 
half a bad one.” 

Guest sat up unmindful of the stab of pain from 
his bandaged leg. 

“I say, man! Three months ago! Sure o’ 

that? ’Cause I-” He checked himself, as a 

sudden thought came. 

“Well, I met ‘Big Butter’ Angoorly later.” 



IN THE DAK BUNGALOW 


321 


The flare of a match held close to his cigarette 
lighted up the doctor’s face for a second. He 
continued conclusively: 

“ And he was saying he attended his funeral at 
Sewree.” 

“Yes,” said Guest slowly. And in an awed 
undertone: “So that was why he gave me the 
look up!” 

“What d’ you say, Ivan?” asked “Bachchha.” 

“I say, Doc, old chap.” The Lieutenant twisted 
toward Almaida. “I wish you’d look about my 
chair. There should be a chit thereabouts.” 

Almaida stooped. “This it?” he said, straight¬ 
ening up and holding out a slip of paper. 

“Bahut salaam! Thanks.” Said Guest care¬ 
lessly, though his hand shook as he took the chit. 
“That must be it.” 

He reached for his pocket flash and read. It 
was the address of stationers on Hornby Boad, 
Bombay, and below was written a sum. 

“Boy!” The aviator raised his voice, and 
clapped his hands twice. “ Boy! ” 

“Lieutenant Sahib?” The brown-footed ser¬ 
vant came out of the dark. 

“Boy, cheque-book, my writing-pad, fountain- 
pen lao. Juldi, quickly.” 

Almaida and “the Babe” asked questions in 
vain. 

The servant returned, also carrying a light. 

“I say,” began Dr. Almaida, “what’s the 
blooming joke?” 

“ ‘Buy War Loan/ ” quoted “Bachchha,” 
“Pukka idea! Do it myself, if I wasn’t ston^ 
broke. ’ 9 


322 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


“You are not giving away money this blooming 
hour of the night, are you, old top ? ’’ said Almaida 
anxiously. The Flight Lieutenant was technically 
under his care yet, and there might be a rise in 
temperature. 

“No; it is a privilege to do this,” said Guest, 
consulting the name on the chit, as he wrote by 
the swaying light. ‘ 4 Rupees 180 right .' ’ Blotting 
and tearing out the cheque, he continued: 

“All, Doc, there are more things in purgatory 
and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, 
as the ‘Bara Sahib’ might have written.” 

“Misquoting William of Avon at this hour! 
It’s this night air. I expected it. Give us your 
pulse, old chap.” The R. A. M. C. reached anx¬ 
iously, but the aviator waved his hand aside. 

“Not fever, Doctor. So little ‘Gurkha’ went 
West three whole months ago!” 

“Boy!” 

“Lieutenant Sahib.” 

Flight Lieutenant Ivan Guest, R.F.C., was seal¬ 
ing the envelope. “Boy, juldi post at the station 
to catch the Bombay Mail.” 

And to the two white figures, who were watch¬ 
ing his actions curiously: 

“I say, you chaps can sit here gassing all night, 
but I must go to communion in the morning. 
Good night!” 


FELLOW VOYAGERS 


TT WAS well past midnight and shadow quiet, 
J- when she came out on the deep veranda again. 
The silver light of night lay on the lawn and the 
landscape beyond. In blacks and gleaming whites 
lay sleeping Fort Wadsworth, while above and 
beyond, lone lights, yellow dots on the Staten 
Island shore, kept vigil. The Narrows rippled 
vividly and the silhouette of a moored destroyer, 
black but for her riding lights, was cut into the 
waters. 

She saw but little of this tranquil scene, that 
to her had become another Garden of Olives. 
Finally, her fresh, sharp memories and this 
sacrifice it hurt to make, forced her to her knees, 
and she rested her head on the column. All the 
plans of years fallen like dead leaves! India, 
under the far eastern horizons! And she had 
dreamed her son’s ministries might be in this 
New York, or nearby Philadelphia. What valid 
claims had those distant brown millions with their 
Macedonian cry more imperative, more impelling, 
than the cry of the pagan millions of Eastern 
America! 

Her heart grew hard under the thought. With 
the day’s dawn his high ship would glide through 
these Narrows and grow small and he would, per¬ 
haps, pass out of her earthly sight. There was 
yet time to seek the dock and pray him for her 

323 


324 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


sake, at least, to stop. She would not drain this 
cup forced to her old lips. Strength came to her 
with this new resolve. 

Then she rose hastily from her knees and 
turned to face the sound of gravel crunching on 
the path. A wild, joyous thought that he had re¬ 
turned to tell her he would not sail swept over 
her and she peered eagerly out. 

Coming up the moonlight, she thinks she saw 
a man and a group of deep-skinned children, 
small and tall; all strangely clad in loose white. 
The man raised his right hand and, at once, the 
young group spread over the lawn and sat, like 
stone idols, cross-legged in a silent, intensely ex¬ 
pectant semicircle. Somehow she thought of 
children at a party and the happy announcement 
of ice cream. 

Then he, their leader, came forward and faced 
her from the veranda’s steps. She saw at once 
he was some kind of poor priest, for he wore a 
long dark habit and it was patched wretchedly. 
A cincture girded him and in it was thrust a 
crucifix, worn and blackened. He was not tall 
and his beard seemed black brown. His face was 
innocent and most winning and it seemed as 
though light, brighter than moonlight, went out 
from it. All these details of his person she no¬ 
ticed by that light. 

“Pardon, but isn’t this Father Paul’s mother?” 
The voice was low and there was in it that sug¬ 
gestion of distant organs, touched by master 
fingers. “My Father Paul’s mother?” 

She thinks she said, “Yes, Father,” rather 
proudly, rather sadly. 


FELLOW VOYAGERS 


325 


“Then we are welcome, the little ones and I, 
to tarry here awhile, awaiting the others? We do 
not need to meet his ship till morning’s tide, yon 
know. ’ ’ 

She thinks she answered him and he said: 

“Thanks. I knew it.” 

She did not ask him his name or question him 
about his strange request. She kept watching his 
countenance, for it seemed strangely that of a 
friend she just could not place. Through Father 
Paul she knew so many. 

He was standing now on the top step, one hand 
lightly against the column, and the other fondling 
the cross in his girdle, and he said, as though he 
was taking up the thread of a conversation mo¬ 
mentarily interrupted: 

“You know, of course, Father Paul’s mother, 
we, the little ones and I, come to your land often 
and we will come oftener in the glad new days, 
for your land is the hope that will not fail my 
poor continent.” 

His hand left his girdle and swept into a gesture 
eastward, over Fort Hamilton and Coney Island, 
way and far beyond. 

“Back in the other days when I, a lad, heard 
wondrous tales of this new land, tales first 
brought back by Don Christopher and his fellow 
mariners, I loved this land. And I thought this 
new land across the western seas, and its red 
peoples and its red gold, were part of the Indies. 
When, later, my holy Father Ignatius willed my 
obedience east, I imagined I was coming to these 
Indies. 

“Those were other days, long forgotten, and I 


326 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


have since learned wiser things—a broad Pacific 
lies between mine own continent and yours; but 
you see, don’t you, Father Paul’s mother, that 
my love for your land is an old, old love?” 

His arms swept out in an unconscious gesture 
of affection. 

He continued: 

‘ ‘ With pride I have watched this new land grow 
into a radiant young mother of men. I have 
watched the best of Europe seek her soil. And 
with deeper pride I have seen the children and 
the children’s children of these many nationalities 
mingle into the head waters of a new nation, a 
new race. Even in face and form and speech 
they grow one. 

“And to the aid of these children’s children, 
while they were a young people, came priests of 
Mother Church out of the Old World, priests 
after my own heart, who toiled long days that 
the Faith might not die down in the breasts of 
these children’s children. And that it has burnt 
brighter is their glorious boast. For nowhere in 
the world does Faith flame as it does in this young 
motherland. 

“Long have I wished for sons of this mother 
to labor in my allotted vineyards, and now my 
desires are not to be in vain. Like God’s own 
Mother, never was it known that any land in 
trouble has called on this motherland in vain. 
Neither shall I for my continent.” 

The priest in the moonlight looked into the dis¬ 
tance, beyond the sleepy gleams of Tompkinsville 
and St. George, as though he was seeking some¬ 
thing. Then his gaze rested in the north, where 


FELLOW VOYAGERS 


327 


over the Bay faintly showed a steady light, like 
that of an evening star. He pointed it out 
exultingly: 

‘ 4 Over there stands your symbol, your Lady 
Liberty with her eternal light aloft. I have al¬ 
ways admired her for the new hopes she has lit 
in immigrant hearts, but today I like to think of 
her as a new symbol.” 

He stopped and his eyes flashed as he continued 
intensely: 

“I like to think of her as Mary of America, 
holding high the torch of Holy Faith—not only 
for her own fair land, but, as she partly faces my 
poor East, for my dear lands. 

“That’s why I have come, and will come to 
these shores of promise.” 

The priest was silent and when he spoke again 
it was softly, as though half to himself: 

“I have one such in Father Paul. He is one 
of the pioneers, who realizes that the debt he owes 
for Faith is to be paid, not back to Catholic 
Europe, but to pagan Asia. One of the first of 
the Yankee lads he is, to whom this debt has come 
home. ’ ’ 

Then he turned to Father Paul’s mother again. 

“Years ago some Irish or some French or some 
English mother stood at the door of her broken 
home, as you stand tonight; sad at heart, for in 
the morning a priestly son would sail into the 
west to this new land. These mothers drank to 
the dregs of their cups, knowing that they in their 
turn were paying thus their debt to Faith. Their 
sons went forth to their missionary ministries 
strengthened doubly by those silent sacrifices. 


328 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


“And with those sons sailed, as fellow-voy¬ 
agers, my brothers Patrick and Augustine, and 
my maiden sister, Joan, and many others. Those 
European mothers saw with the vision of strong 
faith those fellow-voyagers, and they were glad 
that their sons had been accepted in such com¬ 
pany and assured of much aid. 

“Now in God’s design that cup is offered to 
American mothers’ lips that like sons go into my 
needy East.” 

He paused, and then he said abruptly: 

“But first, Father Paul’s mother, see! Father 
Paul does not sail alone, neither will he labor 
unaided.” 

He pointed to the semicircle of children, who 
had sat cross-legged on the lawn, obedient to his 
last command. 

“These are the little ones, who in their day ac¬ 
companied me from village to village. They were 
my valiant Tenth Legion, who rang their bells and 
did do wonders, that men mistakenly said were 
done in my name. These, these now come with 
me to sail in the high ship and accompany Father 
Paul back to our land. And they are not alone 
his fellow-voyagers. For see.” 

The priest stood aside and Father Paul’s 
mother now noticed that the lawn and beyond the 
hedge, as far as she was able to gaze, had filled 
up with a still crowd. 

Back of the silent, chosen companions of this 
priest, there were brown babies, like the stars on 
a starry night, and fields of turbaned men and 
shawled women in flowing garb. There were, 
here and there, white men with priestly faces, and 


FELLOW VOYAGERS 


329 


some of these bore wounds that flashed like great 
jewels. No man could number that still crowd. 
Said the priest, now at her side: 

“Mother, we are his fellow-voyagers. We sail 
at morning’s tide with Father Paul.” 

He stood erect and there was power in his 
voice. 

“And I go with him and I stay with him, like 
his other angel, for I am a faithful guardian of 
all who come to break the Bread to my continent.’ 9 

He gave the signal as a general would, and the 
vast escort commenced to flow toward the city 
and the dock. 

“Now, salaam, daughter. Be of strong heart, 
won’t you?” 

“I will, Father Francis,” she answered. She 
does not know why she said “Father Francis,” 
but she knows she did. 

The priest put his hand to his forehead in East¬ 
ern fashion. Then priest and fellow-voyagers 
had dissolved like mist. 

Father Paul’s mother was looking out across 
the clean, moon-swept lawn to the deserted Shore 
Road, and the still waters, and the dark Staten 
Island hills beyond. 

It was yet hours before dawn, and she could 
easily have motored to the city and the dock. But 
in her heart no such desire remained, for she was 
now of those apostolic mothers, who had taken 
up the cup eagerly, and had drained it to the 
dregs, and had found its drink not bitter, but 
exceedingly sweet. 

A few brief hours ago Father Paul had stood] 


330 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


here in the deep veranda with her in his arms. 
He had taken her last kisses and whispered, half 
mysteriously: 

“Now, Mother, peace and joy. I’ll pray that 
you may see what I see and then you’ll be glad.” 

Then he had blessed her, without letting her 
kneel, and the auto had whirred him up the same 
Shore Road to New York and the great ship that 
sailed on the morning’s tide. 

Today the home on the Fort Hamilton bluff dif¬ 
fers in few externals from its neighbors. From 
its lawn it is forever looking across the Narrows 
at still Fort Wadsworth. A still emerald sea is 
the lawn and smooth shaven. 

Recently its surface has been broken, and that 
was when an old dory, wide and stubby, was 
hauled out of decaying obscurity and fresh 
painted, and half buried in the lawn before the 
home. The bright flowers that grow profusely 
between its gunwales, and the green vine that is 
beginning to twine up its mast, still have a flor¬ 
ist’s look to them. If you look closely over the 
polled hedge, you will notice a black strip with 
the name “PAUL” on either bow, and that the 
old dory is forever headed into the east. This 
is no accident, but deliberate design. For Father 
Paul’s mother is responsible for the resurrection 
of that boyhood dory, and the direction in which 
it lies. 

Her neighbors and her friends know that her 
thoughts, yea, even her heart, is being borne out 
to the East these days. Yet none of her neigh¬ 
bors, her many friends, would rate her as sad or 


FELLOW VOYAGERS 


331 


melancholy. For there is a quiet cheerfulness 
goes out from her presence that is refreshing. 
This puzzles her many acquaintances, who do not 
share her secret. All they know and gossip about 
is the shame of it and the pity. 


HER FAVORITE TONGUE 


T REVOR CASEY must have started the argu¬ 
ment, for he had inherited from his Ser¬ 
geant parent strong opinions, and, as our com¬ 
pound knew to its cost, the gift of expressing 
them fluently, and on occasions, forcibly. Any¬ 
way, he it was who charged into me some three 
feet in advance of the other two. 

“Please, Father Sahib, weVe had a bit of a dis¬ 
cussion, and we knew that you, sir—” he stopped 
with innate diplomacy and I accepted silently the 
implied deference. 

This chocolate-ice-cream-skinned Eurasian had 
all the tweedling tongue of his Celtic father, when 
he wished confirmation of his opinion by author¬ 
ity. But I had had him under my charge a little 
too long to be caught with that chaff. 

“Perhaps, if Naomi — 99 I addressed the fat 
boy from Bagdad, “would start at the beginning, 
I might after mature deliberations give judgment. 
So, Naomi V 9 

“Padre Sahib, what does 4 mature delibera¬ 
tions ’ from you mean, sir?” 

Naomi Djadjohni had only come out of Meso¬ 
potamia at the outbreak of the Great War and he 
was still wrestling to his own improvement with 
the ‘bat’ of the Sahibs. 

“Stupid! The Father means we will each tell 
him our side, and then he will — 99 

332 


HER FAVORITE TONGUE 


333 


Rozarinho De Quadros played the light of his 
dazzling smile on me. If there is somewhere in 
Goa a Blarney Stone, Rozarinho has hung by his 
heels to kiss it. 

‘‘He will what?*’ I said unguardedly. 

“He will say I’m right.’’ 

And again I was enriched with a vision of 
milky teeth, that the brown face set off even in 
the starlight. 

But it was slim Dickie Shaw, a year from “the 
States,” who cut the knot with his direct: 

“Come, and sit down on that bench, Father, 
and I will slip you the straight dope.” 

Somehow, Dickie, the lone Yankee boy among 
St. Mary’s hundreds, had managed, in spite of 
most alien surroundings, to hold and use his 
American. 

We moved across the compound, keeping a 
wary eye on the grass for vipers and scorpions, 
to the low bench directly under the acetylenes. 
In the wide verandas of our Boys’ Barracks 
played Second Division, boisterously and shrilly, 
as boys will in the welcome cool of the tropical 
evening here in the hill station. Their white or 
khaki-clad figures flittered in and out of the yel¬ 
low oblongs of the dormitory doorways, like giant 
moths, and every once in a while a score over¬ 
flowed out of the semi-gloom of the long galleries 
into the lit spaces of the compound. 

Not until I had found a match and it flared up, 
did Dickie begin. 

“Please, Father, it is this way. This here 
Trevor-baba—” (Dick was his senior by a matter 
of weeks, but there was the vast tolerance of age 


334 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


for silly youth in his voice) “says that she speaks 
only—what is it?—Gaelic and—” 

“Sure I did not, Father. What I told Dickie 
Shaw was, she prefers my father’s tongue be¬ 
fore—” 

“Not Portuguese. It is impossible and ab¬ 
surd!” This from Rozarinho with a serious 
waving of his hand, palm out—the universal In¬ 
dian negation. 

“ ’Tis Arabic, my pretty tongue, she speaks 
better of all.” And Naomi added: “Padre Sahib, 
what you know?” 

I must confess I had not quite caught the drift 
of these pleas for recognition, for, like all late¬ 
comers to a discussion, the use of the pronoun 
instead of the proper noun, darkened my un¬ 
derstanding. 

I turned to my small fellow-countryman for 
light, holding a restraining hand against the 
eager trio. 

“Sabr taro. Have patience. Now if Dickie will 
talk connectedly, and you others will hold your 
peace awhile.” For Naomi’s sake, seeing the 
puzzled look come into his face, I changed that 
to: “You other babas will not talk one word, why, 
then, I might, perhaps, learn just what it is all 
about. Chup raho, babalog! Keep quiet, boys. 
Dickie! ’ ’ 

Given silence, Dickie Shaw stated the case with 
inherited Yankee directness. 

“Well, Father, it’s like this. These kids say 
Our Lady likes best of all their lingo, and I’ll say 
—and I’ll bet you too!—she prefers to speak 


HER FAVORITE TONGUE 


335 


United States before any other old ‘bat’ there is 
going. Ain’t I right, Father?” 

Our Lady’s favorite mode of speech had never 
struck me in that way. Arabic, Portuguese, 
Gaelic, and American. It was a broad choice this 
compound argument had given her in one sense, 
yet recalling the Tower of old and its linguistic 
curse, it was narrow. 

That she might be polyglot in her preference 
was one solution that flashed up as I smoked—the 
four pairs of eyes regarding their chosen Delphi 
intently—but suddenly realizing that I had the 
Prefect, Second Assistant, and the two Sacristans 
of our Junior Sodality before me, I rejected that 
for one more practical, and if she were gracious, 
more convincing to this audience. 

4 ‘ Back in that land, that Dickie-baba deserted 
to come out east—” 

“Say, Sahib, how do you get that way? You 
know when Daddy became Consul in Bombay, 
Mother sent me along for company, ’cause she 
couldn’t come herself. Why, I wouldn’t—” 

One argument was ample, so I hastily 
amended: 

“Back in the States, we have a saying that 
there is one easy way to find out anything, and 
that is—” I stopped and, as I had expected, Ro- 
zarinho concluded the sentence. 

“—to do it.” 

“Atchcha. Good, Rozarinho-baba! So, if you 
curious seekers for Mother Mary’s pet language 
would really like to find out, why not ask her for 
a special favor, each one in his own tongue, of 
course, and—see, it will be Christmas in ten days 


336 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


—report to me on Christmas Day. She very 
likely would not listen to mischievous chaps like 
you at all, but being the holiday season, she might 
stretch a point.” 

It was a plausible scheme and was instantly 
accepted. 

“Jolly good, I’ll start asking her tomorrow 
for—” 

I held up a traffic cop’s hand and halted 
Rozarinho. 

44 No; keep it dark, or as it says on your holi¬ 
day boxes, ‘Do not open till Christmas.’ Then 
that afternoon we will hold the next session. 
This discussion is adjourned till a week from 
Tuesday.” 

Then Dickie and Naomi discovered a scorpion 
occupying the same bench with them and, natur¬ 
ally, our argument sought refuge among forgot¬ 
ten things. 

It was close to swimming time on Christmas 
afternoon, when I was reminded of something I 
had rather completely forgotten. 

Rozarinho De Quadros came racing over to 
where I stood in the deep veranda. He was 
clothed in spotless holiday white and off his ear 
fluttered a new khaki tie with a group of Allied 
flags embroidered at its base. He held an evident 
holiday box in his hands and the crumbs of 
Christmas were on his lips. 

“Please, Father Sahib, she prefers Portu¬ 
guese, for see!” And he dug into the tissue 
paper to unearth a Huntley and Palmer tin of 
assorted biscuits. “I asked her that very eve¬ 
ning to send me some for today and in this box 


HER FAVORITE TONGUE 


337 


from one aunt in Cawnpore are my favorite kind 
too! May I offer you three, Father, please?” 

But I was interrupted by the rapid appearance 
of the usually slow-moving Naomi. He flashed 
around the corner of the veranda, a pinkish cable¬ 
gram waving in his excited hand. 

“Oh! Padre Sahib, I am happy, I could cry! 
Oh! See, and on this very day too! It is from 
my father and he say—” 

“ ‘Says’ you should say,” corrected the Goan 
boy, with his superior command of our common 
vehicle of expression. 

But this interruption went unheeded in the ex¬ 
citement of the Bagdadi boy’s news. 

“—he say my dear mother and Ruth, my big¬ 
ger sister, are both safe and home again. You 
know, the wicked Turks took them up the Tigris 
before the British came to my city, and I heard 
one word never till this day. And that was what 
I asked the Lady Mary all these nights in my 
dear speech and she has heard my prayer.” 

He looked at Rozarinho and he looked at me, 
and tears were nearby as he exclaimed: 

“Do not the Lady Mary like my Arabic 
better?” 

I had known the ominous still months Naomi 
Djadjohni had spent, like other of our Bagdadis, 
awaiting and dreading the news that only would 
come, after General Maude and his Tommies had 
entered Bagdad and communications were once 
more re-established with India, and it looked as 
though this answer would give the preference to 
that old tongue. But I remember there were two 
more parties to this argument and I said: 


338 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


“We haven’t heard from Trevor and Dickie 
yet. Give them a look up, Rozarinho-baba, and 
let us hear their reports.” 

“Please, Father, Dickie has gone down to the 
station to meet the Poona Mail. He expects his 
father, the Consul Sahib, up, and I know what 
Trevor Casey wanted and got. He asked in Gaelic 
for some tin to purchase sweets and I saw Father 
McGlinchey hand him rupees three that the post¬ 
man brought him with the letters. And he has 
gone into the bazaars to buy ‘ chowpattis’ and 
tuck. ’ ’ 

Rozarinho stopped suddenly and began to grin 
sheepishly, for he had recalled Khandala bazaar 
with its breath of plague was distinctly out of 
bounds and he was speaking to a Prefect. It was 
Christmas and not the time a Yankee Prefect 
could be strict, so I had to say: 

“I am a little deaf with all this noise. What 
were you saying, Sonny-baba?” 

He gave me a wink of understanding and 
continued: 

“Father Sahib, Trevor was stony broke and 
he asked Our Lady for some shiners and she sent 
him three.” 

“Well, that leaves Dickie to report and as soon 
as he comes back we will see what he has to say 
for the American tongue.” 

But Dickie had not materialized when the 
swimmer-minded of Second Division assembled 
at the end of the compound, their bathing 
breeches and towel strapped around their waists, 
giving each the casual appearance of being pro¬ 
vided with a life belt. I blew the second whistle 


HER FAVORITE TONGUE 


339 


to hurry the usual stragglers and we ebbed into 
the road. 

Khandala village, a medley of palms, thatched 
huts, and yellow temple-domes sleeping in the 
equatorial glare, straggled up to the foot of the 
towering “Sausages.*’ That is our compound 
nickname for this corrugated range of the West¬ 
ern Ghauts. 

Down the road ahead, in twos and threes, 
tramped the barekneed Second Division. Most 
were sheltered under their sun helmets, that give 
British Indian boys a squat appearance, hut some 
still wore the bright-colored paper hats, that had 
come with a ‘‘pop,” when they had hurst the 
Christmas dinner favors. These are a scant pro¬ 
tection against the December sun, hut, somehow, 
the Indian born, white or brown, manage to 
escape sunstroke. 

A Prefect’s place is somewhat like a good gen¬ 
eral’s, so I was bringing up the rear, and Naomi, 
Rozarinho, and Trevor Casey formed my imme¬ 
diate convoy. 

Trevor had evidently had “a healthy hack” of 
native sweets, for he was over-generous in offer¬ 
ing his companions a share from his well-stocked 
pockets. 

We were discussing ice skating—that is, I was 
attempting with difficulty to describe that flying 
holiday sport to boys who had never seen frozen 
water, except in a glass or on an occasional cin¬ 
ema screen—when Trevor interrupted me with 
a sudden: 

“I say, Father Sahib, please look.” 


340 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


I stopped and followed the direction of his 
hand. 

Coming down the dusty road from Khandala 
station was a two-wheeled tonga and in it was 
Dickie Shaw and with him were an European gen¬ 
tleman and a lady. 

I had no difficulty in recognizing the lean and 
lanky American Consul of Bombay, but the lady 
in white was a complete stranger. 

Dickie had seen us, for he waved like a happy 
convent girl, and placing a hand on the tonga 
bullock, he leaped out, recovered himself and 
started racing ahead of the native cart. 

Quite out of breath he tore up and his eyes 
were dancing blue fires. Likewise, he was chew¬ 
ing gum, and chewing-gum is not for sale in 
British India. 

He shouted exultingly: 

“Oh, boy! Father, some Christmas gift! 
What d’yer think I got?” 

“Why, peppermint gum isn’t so bad for this 
country, and a parent in person is a rather ac¬ 
ceptable present for this season. I suppose you 
are going to tell us, Dickie, that is what you 
teased Our Lady in American to send you.” 

“Wrong dope, Sahib. The better is yet to 
come!” 

He flung to the trio of my escort condescend¬ 
ingly : 

“Sorry, I can’t go swimming with you kids 
this after’, but I got company. Just wait till they 
get nearer. No: come along. I want to introduce 
you all.” 

I have seen boys happy, usually through a di- 


HER FAVORITE TONGUE 


341 


rect appeal to their stomachs or the announce¬ 
ment of a bolt-from-the-blue holiday, but Richard 
Shaw bore all the external symptoms of ecstasy. 

We four turned aside from the road to the 
swimming-tank and moved down to meet the ap¬ 
proaching station-wagon. Dickie, beside himself, 
had already flown back. 

The turbaned native driving, checked his 
creamy bullock, and I shook hands heartily with 
the Consul. For, somehow, any meeting with the 
representative of your native land, brings home 
and folks quickly overseas. 

Then Mr. Shaw said: 

“Father, I want you to meet my—” 

But Dickie interrupted: 

“Father, I want you to meet my own mother .’ 9 

He turned exultingly to the three boys, who 
stood silent and self-conscious in the presence of 
these fair strangers. 

“Yah! you and your Portuguese and your 
Arabic, and that there Irish tongue—whatever 
you call it. Yah! I asked Our Lady in straight 
United States for what I wanted, and here she is 
all dolled out in a new suit.” 

He shot around acctisingly and faced the smil¬ 
ing Consul. 

“Daddy, why didn’t you tell me she was com¬ 
ing out from America, instead of keeping it all 
dark and near giving me heart-failure down at 
the station? And, Mother — more of his old 
camouflage—Dad made me write you a long 
Christmas letter last November, too. I bet he 
never posted it neither!” 

The Consul Sahib made a remark about his son 



342 IN XAVIER LANDS 

being grammatically wrong, but substantially 
correct. 

In the middle of this torrent, I reached and 
shook hands with Dickie’s American Christmas 
present. 

Then we soon left them, for Dickie was over- 
eager to escort his guests to the dak bungalow, 
where he could help them unpack their luggage, 
and we hastened after Second Division. 

Trevor and Naomi and Rozarinho kept frozen 
silence all along the hot road to Lonavli, but as 
we turned out and, skirting Blind Man’s Well,* 
dropped down the jungle trail to the tank, I think, 
Trevor touched the current of thought that was 
flowing in each mind, when he stood stock still 
on a boulder in our path and said: 

‘‘ Father Sahib, the next time I want a bloom¬ 
ing thing from Our Lady, I’m going to keep ask¬ 
ing and asking her in her favorite tongue.” 

And Rozarinho and the boy from Bagdad ex¬ 
claimed simultaneously: 

“I’ll say so!” 

Nearby in the lower jungle we could already 
hear the splash of Monkey Falls and shrill happy 
shouts. 


THE CORDS OF ADAM 


T HROUGH the long, open oblong and the 
branches of the huge camphor tree, Father 
Neacy could look across the low gray roofs of his 
village, broken by the higher structure of the 
Shinto temple, with its golden cigar-shaped 
beams, and beyond to the pinkish haze of myriad 
cherry blossoms and the smiling blue plain of the 
Inland Sea. A cluster of white oblong specks, 
brilliant against the western sun, showed the 
home-coming fishing sampans. And away to the 
eastward, where the steep, emerald islands 
merged to give a landlocked look to The Sea, was 
the smudge of smoke of the T. K. K. liner, that 
had been abeam a half an hour ago; the Shinya 
Maru, San Francisco bound. 

Father Neacy sighed contentedly, and then he 
opened again the gilt-edged Scriptures he had 
been reading. His eye rested on a verse. He 
read it. Then he re-read it slowly, as though it 
had started a pleasant chain of memories. A 
faint smile ventured around the corners of his 
mouth. He closed the big black book and lay 
back in the steamer chair. 

Away fell Shimbashi, his Maryknoll mission 
village; away fell the high volcanic peaks of 
Japan. The still blue Pacific world, that the fast 
steaming Shinyu Maru would take fifteen days 
to crawl across, was spanned in a flash. Up came 

343 


344 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


brown Diamond Head and the fair bow of Wai¬ 
kiki Beach. And Father Neacy had a picture of 
the Honolulu Cathedral compound with its gray, 
“Frenchy” statue of Our Lady, her hair “done 
up.” Then he was on the Pacific again and in a 
twinkling up came the jagged Seal Rocks and the 
yellow overhanging Cliff House, its many win¬ 
dows dazzling in the low sun, and the green and 
golden glory of The Gate. A wild, almost conti¬ 
nental leap, with its blur of smiling California, 
frosted Rockies, the lonely, sea-like prairies, the 
broad Mississippi, flat Illinois, and, plump, he 
was back in his boyhood Chicago. 

Two decades, three decades dropped away, and 
Father Neacy had shrunk to “Genie” and he was 
standing at a parlor bay-window, looking out at 
the iron picket fence. Just beyond, by the black 
lamppost, a cab had stopped. The driver, sitting 
precariously aft, leaned over and raised a doll 
trap-door, and he was speaking to one within. 
He pointed toward the red-and-white residence, 
pointed, Gene thought, directly at him, and Gene 
remembered bashfully dropping the lace curtain 
and peering through its protection. 

Out of the cab got a stout man, low and 
swarthy, with a curious bag, green and yellow, in 
each hand. Then Gene saw a tiny boy peep tim¬ 
idly out. At a shout from the man with the bags, 
he gave a leap and landed easily beyond the car¬ 
riage step. After the cabby drove off, the two 
opened the iron gate and came up the white 
flagged walk, “Jack,” the wiry terrier, valiantly 
barking, but timidly advancing at their heels. 

Gene listened for the ring of the door-bell, and 


THE CORDS OF ADAM 


345 


he was with his father, wTien he opened the door 
and heartily greeted the two. The man spoke 
strange English, ‘ 4 as if he was feeling his way in 
the dark,” thought Gene. But the boy, no taller 
than the man’s hip, looked at Gene with pleading, 
oval eyes. At once those pleading eyes of the boy 
fascinated Gene. He followed the strangers into 
the green-walled parlor and sat on the edge of 
a chair, while his father and the dark man talked 
circus and mutual show acquaintances. 

Gene saw the hoy with those pleading, slit eyes 
watching the long-limbed, wooden monkey that 
hung from the beady Japanese curtains, separat¬ 
ing the two parlors, and after a while Gene 
pointed silently to the trio of carved monkeys on 
the mantle, that by gesture advertised they saw, 
heard, and spoke no evil. Gene impersonated the 
trio smilingly, but the other boy did not even 
smile. Then Gene went and, stretching, reached 
down the brown group. Crossing the carpet, he 
put the statuette in this boy’s hand, saying: 

“It’s mine, but I’ll let you look at it. It corned 
from Japan.” 

“I come from Japan,” said the boy slowly, and 
then Gene’s father had stopped talking to the 
man and had said: 

“See, Yoshiteru, the kids are friendly already.” 

And both boys sank back onto their chairs, 
frozenly silent. 

Then when the men smoked and talked again, 
Gene had whispered: 

“My name’s Gene, and what’s yours?” 

Gene’s eyes had opened wide, when the other 
had replied: 


346 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


“Taro; but with the show they call me ‘Six 
Dollars.’ You may call me ‘Six Dollars’ if you 
like. And I like monkeys, don’t you, too!” 

Later that night Gene learned from his mother 
that Yoshiteru and Taro were to live at the house 
till Spring, when the Barnum Show would go on 
the road again; that little “Six’s” mother had 
just died in a hospital, and Gene should be very 
kind to him. 

Then followed for Gene a wonderful winter. 
Every day, down in the stone basement by the 
warm furnace, the two guests spread their mat, 
and went through their tumbling; for constant 
practice is the price of tumblers’ nimbleness. 
Gene used to stand, eyes front, and watch the tiny 
boy in the yellow tights roll up like a porcupine, 
and then Yoshiteru, lying on the mat, would turn 
“Six” with his feet. Now slowly, now dizzily, 
now throwing him up and down, like a glass globe 
in the jet of fountain. There was one afternoon, 
when something went wrong and the yellow ball 
landed on the cruel floor. And yet “Six” never 
whimpered, though he walked lame for two weeks 
after that, and there was no afternoon practice. 

At table Gene used to watch “Six Dollars” as 
he would look at his father, begging permission 
to eat a certain dainty, but though almost inva¬ 
riably Yoshiteru would frown and shake his head, 
“Six” would never, never complain. Maybe, 
sometimes, if it would be an especially tempting 
dainty, Gene might hear just a zephyr of a sigh 
from the tiny creature at his side. 

Then when the green months came, “Six” and 


THE CORDS OF ADAM 


347 


his father left for the White Tops, and Gene felt 
lonely that Spring. 

Father Neacy half opened his eyes and he saw 
the red temple “torii” through the pines, and he 
heard faintly the eternal booming of a temple 
tom-tom. Then his eyelids drooped, for another 
memory was visualizing. 

Country folks and their excited children, in 
overalls and whites, lined either side of an Illi¬ 
nois town street. Gene was sitting alongside of 
4 ‘Sheep ,’ 9 the driver, looking down on the easy 
reins above the dappled gray quarters of the four 
horses that drew the float. Behind him, so called 
“Samurai,” black and golden warriors, grouped 
under a swaying red “tori,” or arch, and at the 
forward edge of this group stood with folded 
arms little “Six” in his blue-spangled tumbling 
tights. On the side of the heavy float in thick 
golden letters was the word “JAPAN.” 

As the circus parade lumbered over the rackety 
wooden bridge, Gene recalled looking down into 
the clear green water and seeing a shiny-backed 
turtle sunning on a rock. He pointed it out to 
“Six” and looked ahead. 

Then something clutched at his hip, as it 
pitched off the circus wagon and under the heavy 
front wheels. The float rose and bumped down. 
There were shouting and screams, and a breaking 
of the two parallel lines of spectators. “Sheep,” 
at Gene’s side, was straining at the reins, that 
had suddenly become steel bars running out over 
the dapple gray backs. 


348 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


When they lifted little “Six” he was just 
breathing, and Gene suddenly remembering, 
looked at the smooth gliding water, showing at 
the bridge side. Then he was dashing down the 
bank and he returned with an old tin can filled 
with water. Wiggling through the crowd, he 
tugged at the elbow of the pointed bearded 
stranger, who was bending and feeling the 
crushed little figure. 

“Here’s water,” whispered Gene, “and if you 
are a Cath’lic?” The doctor nodded slightly. 
“Well, ‘Six’ ain’t. He’s nothing but a poor 
pagan. ’ ’ 

The doctor gave the boy a smile of understand¬ 
ing, and then taking the dripping can, poured a 
tiny stream down and across the unconscious 
forehead. Then he tried to force some of the 
remainder through the tight teeth, but as he was 
doing this, “Six” opened his eyes and giving that 
zephyr of a sigh was quite still. 

Like turning the page of an interesting story, 
the scene shifted and Gene, now maybe three 
inches taller, was dressed in his Sacred Heart 
Cadet uniform and he was walking with his 
father by the side of a lake in the deserted amuse¬ 
ment park. It was March and still raw at Coney, 
and the big incline of “The Chutes” looked rusty 
and unpainted after its winter fight with the At¬ 
lantic storms. That morning Gene had made his 
First Communion in the humble church of Our 
Lady of Solace, that had once been a dance hall, 
and soon the old fire bell, that now graced the bel¬ 
fry, would ring out and call Gene and the other 


THE CORDS OF ADAM 


349 


First Communicants back to receive another sac¬ 
rament from the hands of the Bishop. 

Father was smoking his deep-bowled pipe and 
he was saying: 

“Son, I’ve been so confounded busy with this 
new ‘ Old Mill’ device, that I haven’t had a chance 
to run up to the city and get my Genie a gift. 
But I will tomorrow, and it will be a nice one, 
son.” 

And Gene, plucking up courage, had replied: 

“Cap, you don’t need to go to New York to give 
me the gift I’d like best. It’s—it’s right here in 
our basement. It’s—it’s the baby one.” And 
hurriedly, “I’d tend it personally all by myself 
all summer, if you’d only let me have it for my 
very own.” 

Father looked at the small figure in the gold- 
and-white Cadet uniform, now not as fresh look¬ 
ing as it had appeared that morning at the altar- 
rails, and said: 

“I had been thinking of something in the 
prayer-book line for you, but your Mother will 
have tended to that, never fear. All right, Gene, 
you may have that baby Japanese monk for your 
very own. Though I don’t know whether Father 
Brophy will approve of my First Communion 
gift to you.” 

And Gene had raced along the boardwalk, by 
the tall diving ladder, into the castle-tinned home 
and come into possession of “Fuji,” the much 
whiskered young monkey. Some of the older 
monkeys in the big cage had shown teeth at Gene, 
ever since the arrival of this consignment, that 
would live in the public eye when the amusement 


350 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


park’s gates would be thrown open to the thou¬ 
sands of summer visitors, but never this small 
one. The very night they had come, chattering 
and miserable and frightened, and had been 
placed in the basement, near the fire to prevent 
pneumonia, “Fuji” had crept into Gene’s arms, 
and preferred them to the company of the others. 

That afternoon of the First Communion Day, 
Gene required three calls, each one more impera¬ 
tive than the other, and finally a maternal threat 
to revoke the paternal gift, before Gene came up 
for the thorough overhauling necessary to fit him 
to appear at Our Lady of Solace and under the 
Bishop’s blow become a Christian soldier. 

Like a “fade-away” in the movies, this mem¬ 
ory of “Fuji” and the Great Day contracted to 
a disc and then enlarged on another scene. Father 
Neacy was seeing himself a slim, taller boy in the 
blue Xavier uniform, sitting with many other 
slim, blue uniformed boys in the front seats of 
the school Auditorium. 

On the stage was a bearded Bishop: small, sun¬ 
burnt, and quick; a touch of purple at his throat. 
His English had an unnative twang to it. With 
many gestures, he was telling the Xavier boys a 
true story of his mission field. Gene, sitting in 
the first row, never forgot his words. 

“When my revered predecessors landed at 
Nagasaki, boys, they did not know if they would 
find any Christians. It had been over two hun¬ 
dred years since the last successors of Francis 
Xavier had met painful death, and the pagans 


THE CORDS OF ADAM 


351 


had boasted that they had—what you say?— 
stamped our religion out of all Japan. 

“Our Peres lived modestly at Nagasaki. A 
small chapel had been opened, and one day there 
came timidly into our compound one little group. 
They whispered together and they entered the 
chapel. They looked around at the statues of 
Our Lady and Our Lord; the cross over the altar, 
and the light burning before the tabernacle. Then 
they consulted together, and one of the old, 
wrinkled men came up to Pere and questioned 
him: ‘Are you a bonze of the One God? Did 
the Great Father over the sea send you? Do you 
take a wife? Do you honor the Mother of God?’ 

“And when Pere had answered that they were 
priests of the One God, and were here obedient 
to the Pope, that priests do not marry, and all 
Catholics honor Our Lady, the old man’s face 
brightened and he bowed and motioned to the rest 
of his group, who had been watching intently in 
the rear of the chapel. When they had come, 
they all bowed their triple bow, and—What do 
you think, boys?—they were the descendants of 
those Japanese who had received The Faith from 
the hands of Father Francis. Through all the 
years of persecution, when thousands had suf¬ 
fered crucifixion, the pit, the sword, the slow 
flames, and there were no priests left in all Japan, 
they had held fast to the tenets Francis Xavier 
and his companions had taught them. Fathers 
had baptized their children and had handed down 
the formula of an Act of Contrition.” 

More this old Japanese missioner told the 
schoolboys that afternoon, but Gene, riding home 


352 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


to his seaside home, carried close to his heart the 
brave tale of these noble Christians of Japan. 

Now to Father Neacy came the memory of a 
hot summer day, and gay thousands crowding 
and laughing on the walks that surrounded that 
amusement park lake. Boatload after boatload 
came shrieking down “The Chutes,” the passen¬ 
gers holding fast to kin and property, the Italian 
boatman standing serenely erect in the stern. By 
the Chute Lake Walk, above a stand, was 
stretched an oilcloth sign, “Japanese Ball Game,” 
and over the turkey red counter of this stand 
Gene was leaning. He was a taller figure now, 
dressed in white blouse and blue overalls, and he 
was watching his friend, Tsutsihashi, spiel. The 
stocky young Japanese, in cool silk was saying 
to a group of ladies, who seemed to be dubious 
in their minds, whether this was a form of gam¬ 
bling : 

“No, honorable ladies, this Japanese ball game 
is, what you say, on the table completely. You 
roll the ball this way,” he gave the little wooden 
ball a practice spin, “and in whatever pocket the 
little ball rolls himself into, you receive a hand¬ 
some prize, direct from my home country. 

“See, please, the little ball rolls into number 
19. See, ladies, number 19 is beautiful, very 
beautiful vases. Now you try your hand, Miss 
Lady, and maybe you win one of these hanging 
chimes or these sets of china. They are all num¬ 
bered, and so are the little holes the little wooden 
ball rolls into. You cannot lose, for there is a 
beautiful prize for every number. You cannot 


THE CORDS OF ADAM 


353 


lose. Just try it once, Miss Lady, and try your 
luck. You cannot lose.” 

And so on. Gene knew Tsutsihashi’s spiel by 
heart, and he would use it, word for word, when 
he relieved the Japanese at supper time. 

That hour of supper time, when the crowds in 
the park would dwindle down, before the coming 
of the evening crowd, Gene used to dream over 
that far country, that was pictured on the prizes: 
the snowy top of Fujiyama, the Sacred Mountain; 
the tall oblong of the sampans that sailed stately 
around the vases; the grotesque figures of men 
and women in kimonas; the big-eyed fish that 
hung from a red string; the light, gaudy paper 
fans and their butterfly maidens; the soft straw 
boxes with sprawling dragons on them; the 
strange scented boxes that seemed to imprison 
something of their far-away home. All these 
Gene would handle and from the pictures try to 
dream what this fair Japan might be. 

Now Father Neacy’s thoughts switched from 
that Coney amusement park and the half grown 
Gene, musing over the foreign prizes, and he was 
back again on the old “Pike.” It was a swelter¬ 
ing August day, and the St. Louis sun burnt im¬ 
partially the myriad World Fair visitors, the 
languid Jefferson Guards, and the gaudy red-and- 
gold temple front of “Fair Japan.” 

Within the concession Missouri yielded to Nip¬ 
pon. All around hung endless series of red-bel¬ 
lied lanterns, and there stood at every angle 
blue-and-white vases, great, long-legged cranes 
on their sides. Dwarf, gnarled, green furry 


354 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


frees grew by tiny pebbled walks, and a tiny 
camel-backed bridge curved gracefully across to 
a tiny island. Black-coifed maidens, dainty and 
demure in their pleasant-toned kimonas, served 
clear tea and frail cakes to those at the tables. 

At one of these tables sat Gene, the tall young 
manager now, and with him was his assistant. 
As they sipped their tea, young Kotayama was 
saying: 

4 ‘After the close of the Fair, Mr. Neacy, when 
we take these people back to my own country, 
you will have to come along. This,” his hand 
swept the concession, “this is tinsel, you should 
see the real gold. I wish you could see my Nip¬ 
pon in cherry blossom time. Ah! then she is ‘Fair 
Japan,’ when in my own village by the Inland 
Sea, the people make procession and the tomtom 
beats in the Buddhist temple to keep away the 
demon-wolf, and the people crowd to the more 
popular Shinto temple.” 

‘ ‘ Is there a Catholic church there, Kotayama ? ’ ’ 
Mr. Neacy was asking. 

“ In Japan, Mr. Neacy! How very ridiculous! ’ ’ 

Then Father Neacy, as though he was still 
carrying on his chance conversation with Kota¬ 
yama—“Poor Kotayama,” thought the father, 
“it’s twenty years since I last heard from him” 
—was saying: “Yes; Poor Japan in cherry blos¬ 
som time! I’d like to see it.” He opened his 
eyes, coming out of his musings and his gaze met 
the April landscape; the whole hillside was blush¬ 
ing, pink and white, down to the water’s edge. 
He closed his eyes again. 


THE CORDS OF ADAM 


355 


Then Fair Japan and the Inland Sea receded. 
For this time Father Neacy was looking at a 
husky young Senior, kneeling in the quiet Boys’ 
Chapel at Fordham. Kneeling stiffly, for in the 
afternoon game he had wrenched his knee, carry¬ 
ing the ball over the goal line. As he knelt there 
before the Lady Altar, his look roamed to one of 
the stained-glass windows. He had seen it daily 
at the Boys’ Mass, yet never before at sunset 
hour, when it was not a glass, but a glory. 

He knew, of course, the red-bearded figure, 
with uplifted cross, was his patron and favorite. 
At the foot of the Saint crouched an Eastern 
crowd: Indian mother and brown child, Chinese 
mandarin in flowing reds and greens; but what 
riveted Gene Neacy’s attention was the pagan 
boy under the green palm. 

He was small and almond-eyed and yellow, 
robed in open-throated purple kimona, but the 
face of this lad raised pleadingly to the face of 
Xavier had become, in the strong golden light, 
the pleading face of little, half-forgotten “Six 
Dollars.” 

Forgotten were the thanks due to Our Lady 
for that football aid; forgotten was Fordham 
Chapel, for to Gene, looking up also, had come 
from the glowing figure of Xavier an invitation 
to come and help satisfy these countless pleading 
ones of fair, pagan Japan. 

Something of the great peace that flooded 
Gene’s soul that memorable evening was with 
Father Neacy now, as he opened his eyes. 

Below him was the great peace of the Inland 
Sea; the smoke of the Shinyu Maru had disap- 


356 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


peared; the home-coming fishing sampans were 
being drawn np in yellow rows on the beach. 
Peace brooded over the evening waters, blue 
waters, and peace spread across the lighter blue 
skies. In the nearby chapel the bell began ring¬ 
ing, summoning Father Neacy and his parishion¬ 
ers to Benediction. 

With such a sigh as only those may heave who 
feel complete contentment in their work, Father 
Eugene Neacy reached once more for his neglec¬ 
ted book, that lay open in his lap, and as his eyes 
fell to the page, once more he reread the verse 
of Osee that had caused this attack of day 
dreams: 

‘ ‘ I will draw them with the cords of Adam, with 
the bands of love.” 


A MASS FOR THE MISSIONS 

T HE silent sacristy showed Father McGrain 
vested and awaiting the arrival of his server. 
There was a knocking of boots beyond the door, 
that sounded on the priest’s ears like an impa¬ 
tient pony in a nearby stall; a cold draught swept 
the sacristy, and Father McGrain had a vista of 
falling flakes. Before he could expostulate, his 
belated server had forced the door closed and 
was shaking stray drifts of December snow from 
cap and coat. 

Leaving the Missal marked at the Mass of St. 
Francis Xavier, the priest paused a moment and, 
as was his habit, he recalled his Mass intention. 

“I am offering this Holy Sacrifice for Mrs. 
Frank Carroll’s intention. What was it? Yes: 
she wanted it said for the Missions in honor of 
St. Francis Xavier.” 

Then, seeing his red-cheeked server pulling 
into place his diminutive surplice, Father Mc¬ 
Grain nodded, and, as the altar-boy clasped the 
book, both bowed reverently to the Crucifix and 
started toward the sanctuary. Beyond the rails 
knelt the daily handful of a faithful congrega¬ 
tion, who braved all wintry weather. Father 
McGrain, with his server kneeling at his side, be¬ 
gan the Mass, and at the Offertory he prayed: 
“My truth and my mercy shall be with him, 

and in my name-” 

###### 


357 



358 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


The sluggish canal, foul and yellow, paralleled 
the dusty road from Cha La, till in the distance it 
curved gradually around the base of a blue, un- 
even-decked pagoda to disappear under a distant 
camel-backed bridge. The invisible hand of a 
lazy current drew the water forward. A mechani¬ 
cally poled sampan, with yellow, emaciated chil¬ 
dren squatting under its straw-thatched cabin, 
passed and drew near the turn in the canal by 
the pagoda. 

Then along the water floated a ragged bundle. 
Some twist of the current sent it into the bank 
by the roadside, and tall grasses caught it. A 
faint wail came from the bundle. The locusts 
trilled. The long afternoon declined. The locusts 
ceased from trilling. It was starlit night over 
the cold canal. The dark road from Cha La was 
lonely. And, again, it was another hot day. An 
occasional sampan poled by upon the canal. 

Came a solitary rikisha down the road. In it 
sat a white-cornetted nun. With half-interest 
she watched a lean, black, furry chow trotting 
aimlessly along toward her. She saw the dog 
raise its nose inquiringly and then run down the 
bank and sniff at what it found hidden in the tall 
grasses. 

Sister Joannes ’ years at the Orphanage of the 
Holy Childhood had accustomed her to such dis¬ 
coveries, and so she spoke shrill Pekinese to her 
coolie, and he obediently lowered the shafts—the 
Sister of Charity leaning backward to balance 
herself—and her eyes followed the gray-paja- 
maed figure of the coolie, as he waded down the 
muddy bank and drove off the unwilling chow 


A MASS FOR THE MISSIONS 


359 


dog. He carried a soggy bundle, when he re¬ 
turned to the side of the rikisha. 

With merciful fingers Sister Joannes parted 
the dripping mess of rags and revealed a small, 
wasted, new-born frame. An inner voice whis¬ 
pered, “Hasten,” and Sister Joannes, squeezing 
the dripping clothes, let fall some saving drops 
on the tiny brow. 

As Sister Joannes concluded the formula, 

“-and of the Holy Ghost. Amen,” there was 

a faint flutter of wee eyelids. 

“I’ve named her Frances Xavier, in honor of 
the day,” explained Sister Joannes in Pekinese. 
Then, “Make haste back to the Convent. Savvy?” 

Her coolie obediently picked up the shafts. The 
disappointed chow followed the rikisha for a 
while. They jogged alongside the sluggish canal, 
but, before they came abreast of the blue, uneven¬ 
decked pagoda, the yellow mite of new-born 
Christianity lay still forever, and in Sister’s 
heart was great joy that she had been, as she 
imagined, the instrument yet another “Thief of 
Paradise” had used to fly Home. 

JA, JA. JA. X 

TT W TP TP W “Tv” 

“Sanctus,” thrice prayed Father McGrain, 
and, like a musical echo of his prayer, the bells 
in the server’s grasp shook once and again and 
again. 

Then the priest, with poised, folded hands, 
spoke Holy Church’s prayer for the living. “Be 
mindful, 0 Lord-” 

In a pinkish haze of innumerable cherry-colored 




360 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


lanterns, the popular grounds of the Temple of 
the Two Hundred Gods blushed. The temple 
gongs boomed. Towering cryptomerias grew 
erect as masts and made the tiny gray-clad pil¬ 
grims, who came and went about the trees’ giant 
boles, appear like animated dolls. One little 
woman with black shining hair, high-coifed, 
strolled from idol to bronzed idol. Before each 
she bowed and rose up with a feeling of disquie¬ 
tude. These leering gods had not been satisfying, 
did not satisfy. From the foot of the hill, beyond 
the high cross-beamed “torii” of the temple gate, 
sounded the clear notes of the bells in “the for¬ 
eign church.” 

At first, they were just bells, different from 
the booming temple gongs. Gradually, as the 
little woman stood listening beneath a pleasant¬ 
smelling camphor tree, there came an appeal in 
each clear tone. She had a consoling fancy the 
silver-toned bells had begun to call her person¬ 
ally, insistently. The little woman pondered this 
pleasant fancy, and imperceptibly a vague dread 
stole into her heart, till it clutched her like evil 
fingers. She looked about uneasily in the strong 
sunlight and up into the features of the looming 
bronze figure that the immense camphor shaded. 
Something sinister appeared in the countenance 
of the brooding idol; something that made the 
woman grow icy cold. She could not explain it 
in words, she did not need to. She seemed to see 
in the immovable, leering face of the great idol 
another face, troubled, proud, and restless as a 
gray-clouded sea, something essentially evil, 
treacherous, gloating. 


A MASS FOR THE MISSIONS 


361 


Again, the soft voice in the bells called. Pure, 
peacefully, fell the tones upon her troubled heart. 
Its sound was a gentle invitation. The little wo¬ 
man turned away from the idols. She moved 
down the false temple’s grounds. She crossed 
the shadow of the “torii.” 

It was strange, and yet strangely familiar, this 
St. Francis Xavier’s Church. On the long ob¬ 
longs of matting were quiet worshipers. A peace¬ 
ful quiet pervaded the interior and it soothed her 
heart like balm. There were calm statues here. 
One was of a brown-bearded European “bonze,” 
with a cross in his uplifted right hand, at whose 
feet a Japanese group knelt reverently. And 
another represented a meek-eyed Lady, who held 
lovingly in her arms a Babe with pretty eyes. 

At the farther end of the church a peaceful 
light of reddish hue glowed sentinel-like before 
a little door. Peace seemed to pour through that 
little door, and the woman bowed low, as she 
noticed other women of her nation doing. 

When she looked up, it was for the first time 
into the kindly eyes of a statue of “the Christian 
God.” His robes were flowing, and embroidered 
on His breast was a golden-rayed Heart. His 
gentle Hands were marked cruelly. His Counte¬ 
nance was not leering, sinister, but holy and ex¬ 
ceedingly tender with understanding. 

The pagan woman looked long and hungrily, 
and it was as though her own eyes, held closed 
through a lifetime, were opening. The security 
of a calm flooded her soul. She, who had been 
wearied and burdened, here found refreshment 
such as she had never experienced before. Grate- 


362 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


ful words came unbidden to her lips, and she was 
praying. 

The little woman saw the foreign “bonze” of 
this true temple approaching. She got up and 
walked confidently toward him. In soft Japa¬ 
nese, the woman said: 

“San, I have heard the bells and I have found 

much peace. I come to be a follower of-” 

She pointed to the statue of the kindly One, who 
had the golden-rayed Heart embroidered on His 

flowing robes. “-a follower of Him.” 

****** 

Low bent Father McGrain and reverently he 
spoke the most wonderful words in the world. 
Then, genuflecting, he lifted on high the newly 
consecrated Host. 

****** 

Along the milky shingle wandered a certain 
young man. In loose summer white, his tanned 
skin glowed with boyish health. He was so obvi¬ 
ously in the morning of life. Yet into the western 
horizon, where sky faded into the evening waters 
of the glistening expanse, the young man looked. 
And he saw not the splendor there. His face had 
fallen into thoughtful lines. Heedlessly, he 
stooped and gathered a handful of smooth 
pebbles. Selecting the larger, he curved them one 
by one out into the cresting surf of the open 
Pacific. Tiring of this, and as though in resent¬ 
ment of that colorful west, he turned shoreward. 
As he did, his gaze fell upon a group of slanting 
palms that grew beyond the beach. A rude hut 
stood, dilapidated and deserted, at their base. 




A MASS FOR THE MISSIONS 


363 


About was sandy desolation. Yet the celestial 
light of sunset was warming that abandoned hut 
beneath the stray palms, and in its poverty it ap¬ 
peared regal. 

And there came to the mind of the young man 
the picture of such another hut, beneath palms, 
that once stood on the sands of Sancian. It was 
in the evening of another day and within that 
humble hut, alone, abandoned, lay one of God’s 
valiant workers. Weak with his labors for God 
was this mighty one, and close upon eternity’s 
rewards. 

Long the young man mused, his eyes fixed on 
his abandoned hut, and his mind full upon the 
inspiring thought of that other shelter in the an¬ 
cient sunset time, and of its dying apostle, who 
had traveled into strange lands, where strange 
gods held a people in darkness. He had brought 
those poor souls light and life and the peace that 
passeth understanding. 

The young man turned away and sat himself 
facing the west and its drowning sun, that now 
cast a golden avenue up to his feet. Like many 
another generous soul, the young man cogitated, 
and imperceptibly the avenue of light, stretching 
across the waters, assumed a glorious form. To 
the mind of the troubled young man, striving to 
settle aright the age-old question that all must 
answer when life’s responsibilities approach, this 
avenue of unalloyed gold, reaching toward the 
same sad Asia under the far horizons, became a 
desirable highway. Down its molten splendor, 
there came to the young man the identical cry 
that ever rings in the ears of the other Xaviers: 


364 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


4 ‘ Come, and break to us the bread. Come, oh, 
come !*’ 

Long the young man listened to that famished 
appeal, while before him this way of illumination 
glowed, and the great Glorified Host in the 
heavens slipped lower, lower, and then it was 
lighting distant peoples. The western skies w r ere 
an after glory of blue-fathomed lakes and blazing 
cloud islands . . . fields, white for the harvest. 

The head of this certain young man nodded in 
surrender. He rose to his full height and, salut¬ 
ing the evening sky, where the glory was unfaded, 
cried: 

“Then it’s Maryknoll, Lord, and Your work in 
Xavier lands.* * And, later, he murmured: 
‘ < Thanks! * * 

****** 

Father McGrain, his eyes fixed on the Host, 
was praying for the dead, and when he came to 
the words, “And sleep in the sleep of peace,** he 
paused and added mentally: 

“Dear Master, on this, his birthday, deign to 
release one dear to my Apostle’s heart.** 

With extended hands, the priest proceeded with 
his Mass. 

****** 

It was a land of longing and, withal, a place 
of peace. Pain predominated, and yet the strong 
hands of hope upheld each who was detained in 
that far country. For these souls had each be¬ 
held in that dazzling first moment of eternity the 
Face of Christ. Eagerly had they fled the ravish¬ 
ing vision to seek this land of longing, and there 


A MASS FOR THE MISSIONS 


365 


in patient flame burn away the last atom of 
earthly dross. 

Long in this exile had lain a soul. (His ways 
in the flesh had been careless and Infinite Mercy 
had been his measure as he left the domain of 
days.) Patiently this forgotten one awaited the 
charitable hour when some brother of the Church 
Militant would win his release. This soul had 
seen myriads of his fellow-prisoners, their ran¬ 
som paid, depart in the wings of their Guardians. 
Then upon the heat of his atonement fell cool 
drops—red, Divine—that brought surcease to 
suffering. Up, up he was lifted. The world-old 
land of detainment lay like a still, drear valley 
seen in the noonday from a mighty mountain-top. 
And this soul, whose debt had been remitted, was 
gazing forever on Loveliness. 

****** 

Father McGrain concluded the Last Gospel. 

“Deo gratiasl” responded the little server, and 
there was in his voice the unconscious suggestion 
of the lad who has just remembered his breakfast. 

Later, the priest was kneeling in the silent 
sacristy, making his thanksgiving, and Mrs. 
Frank Carroll, having heard the Mass Father 
McGrain had just said for her intentions, was 
plowing through the early December storm, and 
the little server, arm linked in hers, was shouting: 

‘ 'Gee! I could eat my birthday cake before 
breakfast and never miss it. May I? May I, 
Mom?” 



GINGER PUP 


N OW all yon have to do is listen like the white 
pup in the ad of “His Master’s Voice” and 
yon’ll soon hear how this happened. Of course, 
I learnt the Scout Law as a Tenderfoot, when 
we used to live in God’s Country before Dad was 
appointed Consul out here. Oh, yes; I knew it 
better than a parrot, but just like that green- 
feathered victrola it was sort of the words I 
memorized. BUT—and this is a 100% BUT— 
three weeks ago, when I was cooling off at our 
hill station, the Sixth Law managed to get tattooed 
on me for ever and keeps. You know how tat¬ 
tooing sticks to your birthday suit worse than 
good marking ink? Well, that’s the way ‘A Scout 
is kind. He is a friend to animals’ is chiseled 
into me. And it is principally all on account of 
Ginger Pup, who strayed into our school in Bom¬ 
bay one burnt afternoon last April. 

For something or other, I had been P. S.—you 
know, ‘penance study’—and our Class Master 
had just relented and let Noel Flanagan and Ram 
Chandra and me off. We drifted into the com¬ 
pound and it was too late to get into any of the 
hockey games. So we stopped under the toddy 
palms between Divisions and we were figuring 
how many blooming days of class there would 
be before the May Holidays, when Rani came 
trotting up. She’s that cute gazelle from Africa, 
or some place across the Arabian Sea, that we 

366 


GINGER PUP 


367 


have had for school mascot since old Dadar got 
pneumonia and cashed in his monkey checks. 

Noel had some gran, and if there is anything 
Rani hates, it isn’t gran, so she started to nose 
into his pocket like she wanted it pronto. She’s 
an awful beggar and Noel, he’s a tease, and she’d 
have butted him in half a minute, only all at once 
she backed off and began to pose like she was 
one of those ponies they have in those Living 
Statue groups at the Circus. Ever seen ’em? 

Noel, who’s fat and prudent, got behind me, for 
he thought she was going to rush him. Then 
Rani spread her hoofs, just like a sailor stands 
on a pitching deck, and let her head down like 
she was specializing on ants. 

Ram Chandara, who’s a Hindu and ought to 
know, cried: 

“I say, man, Rani sees a snake. Look!” 

And then Noel, he said: 

“My word, see the blooming pariah pup by the 
compound wall.” And he stretched out his hand 
toward Nesbit Road. 

Over there was a strange cur humbling himself 
against the wall. He was half grown and that 
yellow color you see in natives’ turbans or some 
rivers, like the Mississippi, when they’re muddy. 
He looked like he knew he was intruding, yet he 
wanted to stay, and his tail was going like a buzz 
saw. 

Then Percy Lloyd, who’s in VI Standard and 
the best goal tender in our Second Division, came 
running near the compound wall after a lost 
hockey ball and he raised his stick, and made to 
slog that foreign dog. 


368 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


Instead of scooting through the gate into the 
road like any sensible dog would have done, that 
fool mutt taxied across the compound directly to¬ 
ward where we stood under the toddy palms. 

Right then Rani forgot she was a statue, or 
remembered her descendants were of fighting 
blood, or something like that. Anyway, that ga¬ 
zelle went into action and tumbled Ram Chandra 
over in passing. 

You know, Rani, she’s gentle as a summer day 
usually, but evidently the color of that pup’s coat 
made her see red, or else she thought one mascot 
was enough for St. Mary’s—mascots are awfully 
jealous, you know. For just like a tiny crazy bull, 
with her three inch horns lowered, she charged 
at that yellow pup. 

He was busy dodging boys and hockey sticks 
and so he didn’t have time to look ahead and she 
rammed him somewhere amidship on his star¬ 
board beam. 

Then began the fight. 

Once, when I had an appointment to meet Dad 
at the Consulate, I saw a fool monkey and a par¬ 
rot exchanging compliments upon a balcony in the 
Jewel Bazaar, and I was late for my appoint¬ 
ment with Dad, and once again I saw a mongoose 
fight a cobra to a finish back of our Barracks at 
Khandala, but, 0 Baby! This scrap was movie 
stuff! 

Rani must have roughed the pup’s temper con¬ 
siderable, for instead of looking for the emer¬ 
gency exit, he got up and commenced yelping and 
circling and feinting and the gazelle danced and 


GINGER PUP 


369 


wheeled and bucked like a crazy compass needle 
when you tease it with a magnet, you know. 

The boys forgot hockey, naturally, and came 
running up from all parts of the school compound 
and the Band Boys, who had a concert for the 
wounded Tommies next day and needed rehearsal 
—Ill say they did!—broke up their practice and 
came piling out of the Band room. 

Most yelled: 44 Rani. Rani. Buck him, girl!” 
But a few, when they saw what a game dog the 
pup was, cried: 44 Well played, Ginger Pup! 
Carry on, Ginger Pup!” 

The argument drifted all over the compound 
and once the pup chased Rani right into Penance 
Study room and both tore out again pronto. 44 P. 
S.” didn’t get kept any more that day. 

Then Rani turned and Ginger Pup fled down 
the compound toward where the Infirmary is. 
The chaps who had had fever or hockey bruises 
and were convalescing, piled out on the gallery 
in their pink pajamas. And the Brother Infir- 
marian tried to chase them back to their cots, but 
he got so interested in the running fight that he 
forgot and stayed looking down too. 

The two animals just drifted all over that com¬ 
pound and it was like following a football to stay 
near enough to see the fun. I didn’t miss much 
of it, though I lost a lot of breath, and it is a 
mighty good thing I don’t smoke cigarettes. Noel, 
he had to sit down before the end. 

And racket! Good night! The Prefects tried 
to stop it and some of the other Fathers who came 
out, but they only got sweated up and soiled their 
white habits. 


370 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


Then it quit—the fight did—sudden as a clap of 
thunder, for down near the Wash Room, Rani 
got her horns into that Ginger Pup’s side and 
lifted him. And he got another color to his coat. 
And she’d have done it again, only ‘ 4 Big Butter ’ ’ 
Feeney, who’s on the Junior Aga Khan team and 
our best forward, he got a-hold of Rani and patted 
her and let her buck him and calmed her down that 
way. 

The boys crowded around and cheered like Brit¬ 
ishers do. You know, not a bit all together like in 
a college yell with us. 

About then it was I remembered I was a prac¬ 
tical scout, and started looking for the pup. He 
was lying in a corner, sobbing for breath. You’d 
think he had finished first in a close Dog Marathon 
or something. I went up and called him, pleasant 
like, and he came and crouched by my boots. 

I was just going to apply the Six Law, when 
Percy Lloyd picked up a stone and let the pup 
have it, and the next second I postponed First 
Aid and there was another fight and it didn’t take 
me long to stop that English boy. He never learnt 
boxing from an ex-lightweight champion, and I 
did ’fore I came out here to Bombay. 

After that no other boy decided to slog Ginger 
Pup, and when the Prefect came up, he said: 

i4 You’d better take a wash-up, Percy, and, yes, 
get a clean suit from the Clothes Room.” 

You know, a bleeding nose, when it’s bleeding 
generous like, doesn’t go well with our white 
clothes. And Percy, he didn’t know how to guard 
his face at all. 

When Percy Lloyd went off to the Wash Room, 


GINGER PUP 


371 


the Prefect, who was looking kindly at the panting 
pup, said to me: 

4 ‘Well, this pariah pup is game clean through, 
Dickie Shaw, and you had better take him over to 
the Infirmary and get some assistance making him 
presentable.” 

I’m dead sure Father Prefect had seen the stone 
that Lloyd had slogged at the pup and that’s why 
he didn’t say a word about fighting. 

So Noel Flanagan and Ram Chandra and I took 
up Ginger Pup. There was one big rip and some 
cuts on his side, but the Brother, who doesn’t like 
Rani any too much, put some courtplaster on them 
and stopped the bleeding and gave Ginger some¬ 
thing to drink. You’d think that pup had crossed 
a desert, and Brother gave him some more, and 
then made him stop for a while. 

When we came out into the compound some of 
the boys came over to see Ginger Pup and make 
friends with him, ’cause they like a game one and 
they were all talking about that roaming fight. 
Gee! they didn’t quit talking of that for a week. 

And within that time the pup was a proper fa¬ 
vorite of all the boys at St. Mary’s, ’cause he was 
a good mixer and knew how to handle kids, and he 
even made friends with Rani. For as soon as she 
saw him around our compound several times, she 
tolerated him and, by and by, even played with 
him; racing—and, you know. 

But the one particular pal of Ginger Pup was 
me. He’d have slept at the foot of my cot in the 
dormitory, only the Prefect had different ideas 
and Brother Infirmarian, he let Ginger have a 
vacant cot in the Infirmary. 


372 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


Well, after the exams were over in April, the 
May Holidays actually came and we were to 
start. Father Rector said I couldn’t take the pup 
with me, as Rani was enough mascot for the hill 
station. 

So the morning of leaving I brought old Ginger 
to Gopal’s hut down back of the Miniature Range. 
He’s the hamal (sweeper) who cleans up, you 
know. And I tied up Ginger honestly, no granny 
knot, and he strained and yelped when I went 
away. I felt awfully sorry to have to go and 
leave that dog and so did Noel and Ram too. 

Marching to Byculla Station, I could hear Gin¬ 
ger’s voice and it didn’t sound reconciled the 
least bit. At the station the Poona Mail came 
and we boys piled into a reserved compartment, 
and Trevor Casey, who had charge of Rani, 
started pulling her in, kicking awfully. She 
doesn’t like train travel, so she balked like a little 
Missouri mule, but Trevor, he said more than his 
prayers, and in she came, pawing like she had 
hysterics or something. 

Now when Rani’s that way and you got shorts 
on and are in a crowded compartment, you got 
to watch your bare knees, or she’s liable to punc¬ 
ture you accidentally. I was doing that hard, 
when the train started to move out and then I 
heard some natives yelling on the platform. 

I stuck my head out the door quickly and next 
second something yellow and racy was alongside 
our train compartment; a broken rope trailing 
along the platform. 

Those Hindus and Mohammedans must have 


GINGER PUP 


373 


been yelling “mad dog” in the vernacular, but I 
didn’t. I opened the compartment door wide and 
cried, 4 ‘ Ginger Pup! Come in, you old mutt! ’ ’ 

And Ginger Pup, with not much breath left, 
leapt frantically at the open side door. He 
slipped and scratched earnestly with his claws to 
get a purchase, but he would have fallen under 
the train wheels if I hadn’t caught him by half 
of his ear. And Noel Flanagan, who was handy, 
hadn’t pulled both of us backward into the mov¬ 
ing compartment. 

I’ll say we St. Mary’s boys yelled but Ginger 
Pup, he lay at my feet trying to catch up with 
his breath, which must have lapped him twice 
easily. 

As soon as The Poona Mail got to Khandala, 
Noel and Ram and Percy Lloyd and I—for we 
had made up, and Percy liked Ginger Pup too 
now—we all made a delegation and waited on 
Father Rector and he said: 

“Well, as long as the dog is actually in the hill 
station, he’d better stay.” 

So that was settled satisfactorily and Ginger 
Pup went to all meals and on picnics and swims 
and hikes with us every day, and, at night, offi¬ 
cially he slept on a vacant cot in the Boys’ Bar¬ 
racks. That is, when he wasn’t sleeping unoffi¬ 
cially with me. For old Ginger liked all the boys 
and the Prefect, but he liked this here scout 
better ’n any of ’em. And he proved it too! 

But let me go on. The last Tuesday of the 
May Holidays, we four—that’s Ginger Pup, Ram 
Chandra, Noel Flanagan and I—got permission 
to go on a private picnic to Lohogad. For we 


374 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


had had a general picnic to that place the Satur¬ 
day before and Noel had hidden his new hockey 
stick there in a safe hiding place at tiffin time 
and then, as usual, forgot all about it till we got 
back to the Barracks. And he wasn’t keen on 
going down to Bombay without his new stick. I 
don’t blame him a bit. 

So Tuesday we got up when it seemed about 
midnight to get the early train to two or three 
stations up the line, and then we hiked across 
country toward the ruins. 

You know, or maybe you don’t, that Lohogad 
is an old rock fortress from the days of Shiviji 
and the Duke of Wellington—only he was plain 
General Wellesley in those days—and it’s on a 
high lonely hill and you climb up a road criss¬ 
crossing the face of the hill. Once within the 
outer walls, you think you are in the streets of 
a deserted Jerusalem, only it’s more deadly quiet 
and abandoned like. For nobody lives on Loho¬ 
gad now only cobras and some gray ape families 
and the usual horrid scorpions. 

By ten, the sun was on the job and it was hot 
as where neither you nor I intend to end up. We 
were about several hundred feet up and old Gin¬ 
ger Pup was barking up a palm tree in the top 
of which sat a gray ape looking down like he 
was saying “You poor fish!” This only made 
Ginger madder, but it didn’t do him any, any 
good. Monkeys sure know how to get a pup’s 
goat. So I had to whistle and we all finished the 
climb to the top of Lohogad. 

Climbing steep hills in India is worse’n going 


GINGER PUP 


375 


up the Washington Monument when the elevator 
is out of order, and it was never running the 
two times I went up it, so I ought to know. 

I shouted: ‘‘We are going swimming first.” 
But Noel said no, he had come to get his new 
hockey stick, so w r e hunted a bit and found it in 
a kind of dark cave with bats, just where he had 
hidden it. Then we raced across the walled 
plateau for the tanks and I beat out Ram and 
Noel, only Ginger Pup came first. 

These tanks on top of Lohogad are cut out of 
the solid rock—I guess to hold drinking water 
when an army beseiged the fortress in the good, 
red days—and they have crazy, half crumbled 
away figures of four-armed and two-headed na¬ 
tive gods carved around the sides, and little worn 
stone steps leading from the water’s edge. 

But I hadn’t come to study idolatry. So I dove 
in, twisted, and came up floating. It’s a funny 
feeling, swimming on top of a high, deserted hill 
and only seeing sky; like being in the canvas 
deck pools on the Pacific liners. 

Finally, we got tired and cool and hungry, and 
after we had eaten down to the bottom of our 
tiffin baskets and we had stoned a cobra we saw 
coiled on a rock in the sun, we felt sleepy. So 
Noel and Ram and I went off to an old, ruined 
temple by the southern wall. Ginger Pup spotted 
another ape and he charged away after it. 

This temple was just a square stone room with 
a Hindu stone god—Shivi or Vishnu or one of 
that kind of idols—in the center. It was shady 
there, anyway, even if the floor was hard stone, 


376 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


and the next I knew I was dreaming I was on 
top of the Woolworth Building in little old dis¬ 
tant New York, where I belong by rights, and I 
could see the Jersey side and the big electric 
clock and piers and ferry boats and a liner in 
midstream and tugs working around her like ants 
bringing home a worm. 

Then something snuggled against my legs and, 
half awake, I knew it was Ginger Pup and he 
had gotten tired of daring that ape to come down 
out of the palm tree and say it man to man. 

I reached out my foot and kicked him friendly 
like and his tail thumped some Morse Code on 
the stone floor of that Hindu temple in answer 
and I was asleep again. 

Then, maybe an hour or a week later—I don’t 
know, as I had left my wrist watch back in bar¬ 
racks ’cause it needed fixing—I half awoke and 
an awful feeling seemed to come over me. 

I don’t know just how to describe it. You know 
how in bed at night, you sometimes seem to feel 
your Guardian Angel hovering by, and you feel 
safe and comfy, like the blanket was his wing. 
That way. Well, this feeling was entirely dif¬ 
ferent from that. I don’t mean my Guardian 
Angel didn’t feel on the job, but just at that mo¬ 
ment he didn’t feel so near, though he really was 
all the time. 

I wasn’t awake and I wasn’t asleep, but I knew 
I was in India and not America. I opened my 
eyes and I could see that stone idol in the shady 
light of the pagan temple—its four hands and evil 
jeweled face, partly crumbled away, and a string 


GINGER PUP 


377 


of withered yellow flowers wreathed around its 
neck. 

Then there was a scraping and around the base 
of that idol poured something dark and swayey. 
It reared and I was wide awake and looking 
straight at the greenish scales and hooded head 
of the largest cobra I ever, ever saw. Believe 
me, I don’t ever want to see any bigger, or smaller 
for that matter, ever again. 

That poison snake was rising and swaying like 
a rubber candlestick almost over me and I knew 
enough to imitate stone and S. 0. S. Heaven. 

Seconds take hours to pass sometimes, and I 
must have grown an inch, when Ginger Pup, 
curled up into my feet, stirred. 

Then he did the bravest act a dog ever did. 
He could have run away, but he sprang over my 
stomach directly at that deadly head. 

He wasn’t quick enough, for lightning is a local 
alongside the express speed of a striking cobra. 
Both fell on my breast and the snake drew back 
and struck that pup again. I let out a yell. 

Then the cobra disappeared around the base 
of the Hindu god and Ginger after it. Noel and 
Ram Chandra were yelling too, and I felt very, 
very sick and that weak I couldn’t have wrestled 
with a sunbeam. 

I must have fainted, for some time later my 
face was all drippy. When I was able to register 
impressions I was resting in Noel’s lap and he 
was looking mournfully at his new hockey stick 
which was split in two. There lay the cobra in 
the sunlight of the doorway with its back 
broken. 


378 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


Then I remembered and I whistled for Ginger 
Pnp. But Noel held me and Ram gave me a pull 
at the water bottle and tried to make me rest. 
I wanted Ginger Pup and I struggled to my feet. 

I found the pup on the other side of the little 
temple. He was all swelling up. 

When I saw him I cried and I didn’t care who 
saw me, ’cause my dog could have run away and 
left me to that awful cobra. 

But that isn’t all. Wait till I tell you the better 
part. When I was able to hike, we wrapped poor 
Ginger Pup in my khaki coat and took turns 
toting him down the steep hill path from Fort 
Lohogad, and in a little village on the plain we 
hired a bullock cart from the headman and came 
back to Khandala. 

Ginger Pup was laid out in a box lined with a 
red dormitory blanket in the long corridor out¬ 
side the Boys’ Barracks. 

The Fathers and the boys all came to see him 
and there wasn’t much else talked of in our com¬ 
pound. Though that morning the First Division 
team had played the wounded Tommies at the 
Soldiers’ Barracks up the road and beaten them 
two nil. 

Now I’ll say this for Percy Lloyd. He’s the 
right sort and the idea was all his. He didn’t 
say a word to me, but he went to Father Rector 
and he said it was an excellent idea and Ginger 
Pup deserved the honor. 

Then young Lloyd told me. 

You never saw a dog funeral with full military 
honors, did you? Well, I did once, and I am glad 
I was chief mourner. 


GINGER PUP 


379 


For in the cool of the evening, the Band Boys 
got out their instruments and lined up. First 
came the Band, playing “Tipperary’’ slowly and 
it sounded just grand and solemn. Then Trevor 
Casey led Rani on a chain, for we thought she’d 
like to attend Ginger’s funeral, and she was the 
only lady who did, all the rest were men. 

Noel and Ram carried the box, all nicely 
wrapped in that red blanket, for the Prefect said 
we could bury it with Ginger Pup. And the 
Guard of Honor, eight boys in uniform with guns 
reversed, marched either side and the other sixty 
boys trailed behind. A lot of the Third Division 
kiddies were sniffling openly. 

Percy, at the last moment, got another idea and 
he wanted to toll the chapel bell, but Father 
Rector said there was no need as all would be 
marching. 

The funeral wound around the compound and 
below the Boys’ Barracks, just at the edge of 
The Ravine, where the jungle starts, the little 
grave was dug. 

The Guard fired the last volley and Noel and 
Ram and I filled in the hole, and we all came 
away. 

Only later, Noel and I got a board and we cut 
into it—it took a whole afternoon with our scout 
knives—this sign. And if you ever come up to 
Khandala in the Western Ghats, you can see it 
plainly, for it is over his grave and it reads: 

HERE LIES 
GINGER PUP. 

A PUKKA HERO, 


380 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


But I don’t need any sign to remember him, 
and likewise I got chiseled on my brain “A Scout 
is kind. He is a friend to animals,” ’cause I’ve 
learnt for life, the Sixth Law Pays. 


THE TILTED CROSS 


C APTAIN LESLIE ALMOND had been think¬ 
ing for a long, long time. Ever since the 
Eurasian Sister had brought him a plate of ice 
cream. She had given him a few more babyhood 
reminiscences of her son Cyril—reminiscences 
that the Captain Sahib could repeat from oft- 
heard repetitions, and he had heaved a “healthy’’ 
sigh, after her white and red-crossed person had 
disappeared down the long corridor. 

He looked disgustedly at the untouched plate 
lying on the little wicker table in the midst of a 
few gaudily-covered novels, his tobacco-tin, and 
his writing materials. Then his eyes, like caged 
Bengali tigers, restlessly turned, sweeping the 
high-ceilinged room, and finally focused on the 
empty khaki sleeve that was pinned up, and at the 
blanket that terminated so unnaturally below his 
knees. Then his glance fell to the narrow deep 
red bar of ribbon sewed to his left breast, and he 
shook his head very slowly. 

Both legs and an arm had that Cross cost him 
—true, he had crossed the Tigris, started the 
bridgehead, and Kut had fallen the next day—but 
most of life, the thirties and the forties and on, 
stretched endlessly, grayly, down to the end of 
time. 

This awakened vista of that long, long way of 
helplessness wrung from the Captain again: 

381 


382 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


“Ah, God, it’s too much to expect it! Why, forty 
dependent, useless, chaired years! No, no, no, I 
can’t! I won’t! Ah, if there was only something 
I could do!” And again in a caged agony his 
eyes roamed from prison wall to prison wall. 

The tropical twilight lit up his silent room—it 
had been part of a gold and pink suite that trav¬ 
eling Maharajahs had engaged before the great 
Taj Mahal Hotel had flown the Red Cross flag 
from its room. 

Through the glowing western windows the im¬ 
prisoned Captain Sahib caught the feathery tops 
of palms, where the blue crows fought forever 
with their ancient and tiny enemies, the green 
sharp-billed parrots. And beyond were the min¬ 
arets of a mosque and the towers and domes of 
stately Bombay. 

But it was the long southern windows that the 
Captain faced, as they gave him a glimpse of that 
moving life for which all that was left of him 
craved. The cloudless blue above the blue and 
white bay, and the green jungle-clad hills on the 
farther shore, and, in between, the gleaming- 
sailed dhows of the fisherfolk and the craft that 
slipped by—black merchantmen, grim gray cruis¬ 
ers, the nervous destroyers, and the ceaseless ar¬ 
rival from Mesopotamia of the great ships with 
the green and white stripes and the big, painted 
red crosses that the Captain could see even at 
this distance. These ships always made the Cap¬ 
tain sadder, for he knew they carried, in the low, 
white salons, other remnants of men. 

The twilight had gone as quickly as it had come 
—our twilights do in Asia—leaving lengthening 


THE TILTED CROSS 


383 


shadows, twinkling lights on the black-waved bay, 
the regular sweep across the skies of the sleepless 
searchlight beams, and the wakeful warm dark¬ 
ness. 

“ Another hot night!” thought the Captain 
aloud. “Another hot night, the prelude to an¬ 
other hot day!” 

Somewhere in the bazaar nearby a Hindu har¬ 
monium began to swell and fall. Up over the 
window-sill came the strain. The Captain's face 
fell into hard lines. 

Why, oh why, would they play that air of all 
airs! The heaving harmonium carried it—“It's 
a long, long way to—” 

“I say, man, quit that Requiem,” murmured 
Captain Almond angrily. 

“—but my heart's right there.'' And the shrill 
voices of “chhokras”—native boys—started the 
chorus once more. 

Again they came, the faces of those gone, and, 
seeing nothing but the oblong that led into the 
night, the Captain in the chair saw them all once 
more. How gayly they had sung that song in 
the early days, as they had tramped, tramped 
down to the embarkment at Apollo Bunder, and 
the Captain had tramped and sang the lines with 
them too. 

Captain Almond, back once more in the days 
before '14, found himself repeating the old nick¬ 
names. “Diwana” Mourao and “Hindu God''— 
they never came back from desolate German East 
Africa. Little “Dickie” Race and Hoy—“Hob- 
dledehoy”—both lie in the abandoned hills of 
Gallipoli. “Bull” McGill and “China” Martin 


384 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


gave their all—one on the Somme and the other 
that crashing May day oft Jutland. 

Then the ten that the desert sands of Mesopo¬ 
tamia claimed! Ever so softly in the still room, 
the Captain, as in a litany, went over those school¬ 
fellow names—for they had all been together 
through the jolly years at St. Mary’s. “Blink¬ 
ers,” “Punch,” “Patsy,” and his brother 
“Polly,” “Butter” and “Big Butter,” “Mai- 
die” and “Jumbo,” and the two “Gingers.” 

“And I am the only one that Hun or Turkish 
lead has cruelly spared!” said Captain Almond, 
“Spared! Has it? I, the useless remnant, de¬ 
nied the sweet grave! They did their bit for the 
Empire, and I—I, this blooming burden!” And 
again his anguished soul forced out the cry: “Ah, 
God, if there was only something, some little thing, 
that I could do!” The Captain Sahib stopped 
hopelessly. 

That Hindu harmonium was still wailing that 
tabooed air, and, as though to escape it, the Rem¬ 
nant looked up and out into the tropical, star- 
spangled heavens. All the glorious stars were 
out; the least, gleaming gems, such as only Rajahs 
could afford to wear in their turbans, but blazing 
there low in the south, perfectly framed in the 
window, were the crown jewels of the Southern 
Cross. 

Long the weary Captain looked up into the heart 
of the Mark of Salvation, and gradually a new 
meaning was read to him in that constellation. A 
message, which gave flight to the black hopeless¬ 
ness that had been engulfing him, and brought, as 
refreshing as the bay breeze that cools the hot 


THE TILTED CROSS 


385 


roads of Bombay at evening, the sense of blessed 
usefulness. 

For tonight Captain Almond saw beyond. Why, 
this Starry Cross tilted slightly to one side, was 
the Emblem of those neglected chums’ graves in 
East Africa, in torn France, in sweltering Meso¬ 
potamia ! 

How often in the field, as they had fought up 
the banks of the yellow, rapid Tigris, had Captain 
Almond seen such a tilted cross at the base of a 
date-palm. And he had helped to erect such a 
rude crossed board himself over poor old “Gin¬ 
ger” Troy’s grave! Then he and the khaki thou¬ 
sands had trenched farther up the blazing river, 
and who remembered those whose shattered bodies 
lay under such tilted crosses—Southern Crosses— 
but whose needy souls lay beyond? 

With his gaze still fixed on that inspiring Sign 
that had given him tonight new life, a new hope, 
something to do, the useful Remnant, that was 
Captain Leslie Almond, V. C., rested more con¬ 
tented in the hot, tiresome pillows. 

Then taking pains to make his intention clear 
—for all those chums who now waited patiently in 
the Trenches Beyond—the Captain Sahib reached 
with his remaining hand, and, slipping the rosary 
from his neck, began gratefully to say his Aves. 



THE BISHOP’S STIPEND 


I T WAS a warm evening and the slight figures 
under the flooding electrics cast sharp, darting 
shadows over the compound. Blacker in the black 
background loomed the still fringe of toddy palms, 
the huge bulk of the darkened church, and the com¬ 
pound side of St. Mary’s School. Skyward, scat¬ 
tered in the soft velvet of the Indian night, were 
the great, pleasant stars, and, like a benediction, 
in the south blazed the greater stars of the South¬ 
ern Cross. 

Something of the peace of this scene was in the 
priest’s heart as he stepped out of the long gallery 
into the compound’s dust. Simultaneously the cry 
went up: 

“ Salaam, Father Sahib. Please, Father Sahib, 
we’ve been waiting.” 

And certain familiar figures closed in on the 
stocky priest to escort him to the stone seat at the 
base of the tall, slanty palm. Once he was seated 
gingerly—for white habits and dusty stones are 
not meant to meet—the youngsters squatted Bud¬ 
dha-like about him, their bare knees almost touch¬ 
ing the ground, and their white suits intensifying 
the brownness of their skin. 

Carefully Father McGlinchey searched for a 
match and, as he did so, an envelope fell out of his 
habit pocket. Instantly there was a polite scram¬ 
ble, but Wilfrid de Noronha, the wistful-featured 

386 





THE BISHOP'S STIPEND 


387 


Cawnpore chap, was the quickest and handed it 
back with a smiling: 

“Please, sir, and may I have the foreign 
stamps ?” 

The blue and purple American stamps, that had 
carried this letter the long 15,000-mile way, were 
carefully removed, and the incident gave the 
Padre Sahib a hint. 

“Marcel-baba,” said Father McGlinchey, ad¬ 
dressing all through the frail French-Mauritian 
boy, directly before him, “that letter from ‘God’s 
Country’ brought me bad news and good news.” 

“ Oh! sir, I’m sorry. I mean, I’m joily glad. ’ ’ 

But Marcel Coulon’s confusion was lost in the 
general: 

“Keep quiet, you! How, sir? Please, Father 
Sahib, tell us.” 

In the hush that clamped down on the circle, the 
shouts of other lads, playing “Gilli Dandu” in the 
dust under the electrics, came shrill and distinct: 

“Because, when this came in this evening’s post, 
I learned that a good Bishop had, as you babas 
say, gone west. Only, I know, he went higher than 
west, and one of the first things he did, when he 
arrived at, say, High West, was to thank a great 
big little American baba, about the size of tiny 
Visitatio here.” 

Visitatio Viegas, Goan and brown-eyed, blushed 
under the universal gaze, and tried to smile. 

“There is a ‘chota cannie,’ but—” 

Father McGlinchey hesitated tantalizingly, and 
as he expected, the anxious chorus broke out: 

“Please, Padre Sahib, the ‘chota cannie!’ The 
short story! What was it ; I ’ ’ 


388 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


“Well, once upon a time.” That start rightly 
contracted this circle. ‘ ‘ Once upon a time, when I 
was a younger priest than I am now, I was sta¬ 
tioned at St. Francis Xavier’s—” 

“I’ve been there. On Park Street, Calcutta. 
One day, my servant—” broke in Rozarinho Espe- 
nance, but his further observation was stopped 
by “a solid blow” from indignant neighbors, and 
Father McGlinchey continued: 

“No; not over Calcutta-side, but in New York 
was this Xavier’s. It’s a big arching church,” 
(the priest sought for terms familiar to this Bom¬ 
bay audience), “cramped down in a gloomy read 
of the Kalbadevi section of the city, right in the 
middle of the Clothes Bazaar, and it required 
many, many altar boys to serve all the Masses. 

“Among these Mass-servers was a most willing 
one. He was, as I said, about as high as this Top 
o’ my Thumb,” Father nodded at Visitatio, “and 
he knew his Mass Latin even better.” 

“Bull’s eye, Padre Sahib,” commented Naomi 
Angoorley, a Bagdadi listener. 

“One morning, just toward the end of my Mass, 
Louie-baba serving, I turned for the last blessing 
and I noticed Louie making a very wobbly Sign of 
the Cross. The next instant he toppled over. 
Somewhat like Naomi-baba here did last route 
march.” 

The Bagdadi boy’s late weakness was common 
compound talk. Visitatio brightened visibly. 

“An altar boy hurried over from a side altar 
and Louie was helped away. Well, naturally, I 
hurried through the Last Gospel, said the prayers 
at the foot of the altar, prayer and responses, all 


THE BISHOPS STIPEND 


389 


by myself. In the sacristy I found a very chalky- 
looking lad crumpled up in a chair, and he was 
not refusing the cup of hot coffee that the kindly 
Brother Sacristan had sent for. 

“Louie didn’t show up next morning, nor any 
other morning that week, and I thought it was time 
for me to investigate. So one afternoon I put on 
my ‘cocoanut topee,’ as you call it, though in Yan- 
keeland we call that kind of a hat a ‘derby,’ and 
climbed the four flights of rather rickety stairs 
to the home of Louie. 

‘ i Sure enough, he was lying listlessly in bed, but 
his interest was aroused when his mother called: 
‘Louie dear, see whom Our Lord sent to see you!’ 

“That afternoon I learned more of Louie than 
I had ever suspected. He was in the—well, you 
would rate it—the Third Standard, and he had 
been in the Class of Preparation for First Com¬ 
munion. Back in the days of Louie, chota babas 
were sometimes rather bara babas (big boys) be¬ 
fore they received Our Lord for the first time. 
Today, thank God, all that is changed and a boy of 
Louie’s nine years, who has not made his First 
Holy Communion is a rather neglected kiddie. 

“Now the Doctor Sahib who was attending him, 
had found something radically wrong within 
Louie, and his verdict was that Louie would have 
to spend a long time in bed. And that, to Louie’s 
eyes, meant no First Communion. 

“I didn’t say anything, but on my future visits 
to that home I questioned Louie quietly and I was 
more than surprised to learn how well prepared 
Louie was for His Master’s coming. And the re¬ 
sult was that the morning the First Communicant^ 


390 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


came up to the altar-rails in vast St. Francis 
Xavier’s, I carried Our Lord to Louie, and I doubt 
if any of the white-clad children were happier than 
this sick-a-bed lad. ’ ’ 

Here the caged lion, over in the neighboring 
Aga Khan compound, roared, and out of the dark¬ 
ness came, trotting, “Rani,” the school mascot 
and pet. She intruded her gazelle self into the 
midst of the circle, trembling violently, and ‘ 6 Ban¬ 
dar” Mourao, peeling a plantain, gave her the 
skins. Father McGlinchey petted her quietingly 
as he resumed: 

“A whole year passed and Louie would receive 
Holy Communion as often as I was able to bring 
It to him, and the time came around when the 
others in Louie’s class were to be confirmed. Now 
Louie wanted to receive that Soldier Sacrament 
the worst way. Possibly the long, long days lying 
there, for Louie did not get any better, made my 
former little altar-boy feel the need of strength. 
Several times he shared his longing with me and 
I instructed him as well as my limited time al¬ 
lowed, but I was not a Bishop, and Bishops, even 
in New York City, are about as common as—” 
Father McGlinchey swept the tropical setting for 
a comparison—“as Yankee babas in Bombay. So 
there seemed no possible way in which Louie-baba 
could be confirmed. 

“But little boys who love Our Lord very much, 
have ways of moving mountains, and Louie was 
such a one. If anything, his year of suffering had 
shrunken Louie, so that at this time he looked 
smaller than he used to in the small red cassock 
and shrimpy surplice of an altar-boy. 


THE BISHOP'S STIPEND 


391 


“At St. Francis Xavier’s College, a new Boys’ 
Chapel had been fitted up, and, as you do or do not 
know, it is necessary for the Bishop to consecrate 
or bless a new chapel. 

4 ‘Now comes the Bishop into this chota cannie. 
He was one of those ocean-hearted men, always on 
the alert to help others. He promised to come 
over to St. Francis Xavier’s and consecrate the 
new chapel, and this morning in May he did. 
After the ceremonies, the Bishop and his Secre¬ 
tary and Father Hector were having their chota 
hazri in the college refectory. I had said a 
Funeral Mass and came for my own breakfast, and 
lo, I found myself sitting across from His Lord- 
ship. 

“The Bishop was telling his plans for doing 
good; only, in his humility, he would never think 
of calling them by that name. He told us of the 
large classes of Confirmation he had that month, 
and he added: ‘I find by my record that I have 
confirmed 44,000 within the last five years.’ 

“Now, just at this moment—see how Our Lord 
almost visibly uses his poor instruments some¬ 
times—there came to my mind the picture of 
wasted Louie, lying on his tiresome little cot, and 
his one longing to receive this Sacrament of 
strength. And almost before I knew it, I was 
leaning across the table and saying: ‘Bishop, I 
can make your record 44,001 very easily.’ 

“Then out came the story, and in a few mo¬ 
ments I saw that I had the Bishop’s whole atten¬ 
tion. His eye lightened in that kindly way, those 
who knew him loved to observe, and he said: ‘You 


392 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


say yon think this Louie is sufficiently prepared 
to receive Confirmation V 

“I offered to bet. Then said the Bishop: 
‘ Father, after breakfast, you go and tell this Louie 
that I and my Secretary will be at his home within 
the half hour.’ 

“You babas can rest assured that it did not 
take me long to finish and excuse myself. I 
dropped into the sacristy and gathered up some 
candles, a surplice and cassock—the smallest that 
I could see—and then I hastened to the tenement 
where Louie lived. 

“As luck would have it, Louie’s father was 
home, and when he and Louie’s mother heard what 
visitors would come shortly, you should have seen 
how juldi they got into action. Rut I thought 
Louie would faint and spoil everything, when he 
learned that a pukka Bishop was coming to him. 

“I left Louie’s mother slipping Louie into his 
altar garments and then I returned to hold my 
Bishop to his promise. 

“I found him vesting in his full robes, same as 
he had used to consecrate the chapel, and he had 
made his Secretary don a surplice and stole, for 
he said: ‘Such a little lover of the Lord deserves 
to be confirmed with all the ceremony that I am 
capable of.’ 

‘ ‘ Sahibs passing on Sixteenth Street must have 
received a shock that morning, seeing a Bishop 
in robes coming down the steps of the college, but 
their surprise was faint compared to the sensation 
caused in Louie’s neighborhood, when the humble 
Bishop’s gharri, driven by the Bishop’s lordly 



THE BISHOP’S STIPEND 393 

gharriwallah, drove up and stopped before the 
tenement. 

"Up the four flights of stairs climbed the Bara 
Padre Sahib, and up the four flights of stairs 
climbed his Secretary, and I don’t think either 
were used to such exercise. But both felt paid in 
full when they saw the happy, happy face of 
Louie-lad, as alight as the candles flickering on 
the small table. 

“He was lying there, a little red and white altar 
baba. Somehow the sight made me think of a 
marble Boy Crusader, lying stately in some Old 
World Cathedral, like that picture in your English 
History.” 

“I know. It’s on page 218.” 

But “Bachchha” Fernandes was silenced by a 
savage, “I’ll knock you spinning over.” 

“Then the Bishop sat by the side of the bed, 
holding his golden crook, and he asked Louie a few 
questions. They seemed simple, but they were 
searching and I doubt if any of Louie’s former 
schoolmates, preparing at that time to receive the 
same Sacrament, could have given the answers 
that Louie gave so readily. 

“Finally, the good Bishop turned to me and he 
said: ‘Father, this child’s knowledge is more than 
book, and I wish all children were as well pre¬ 
pared as your Louie seems. I mean is/ 

“Then the Bishop stood up in his purple and 
white and gold and his Secretary handed him his 
ritual and he began to administer the Sacrament 
that makes us Soldiers of the Lord. And when 
he came to the part where he gives the candidate 


m 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


a blow, I think His Lordship put more than the 
customary light tap into that blow* 

‘‘ When the beautiful ceremony was all finished, 
the Bishop, looking down on the pale cheeks, said: 
‘ I believe that I am entitled to a stipend, and I am 
going to get it privately from Louie. 7 So all of 
of us went into the other room, and I was the last 
to leave and as I was closing the door I looked 
back and saw His Lordship sitting by the bedside 
and he was holding Louie’s hand and asking him 
something very earnestly. 

“Then the Bishop came out, and with that 
charm of his by which he made all feel at home in 
his presence, he jokingly refused another break¬ 
fast. When I had seen His Lordship off for St. 
Stephen’s, his own church, I reclimbed those long 
flights of stairs and I needn’t tell you that I 
found a very happy kiddie, who would not tell me 
a word of what he called 4 the Bishop’s secret.’ 
But I made a shrewd guess, for I knew the Bish¬ 
op’s fondness for asking the prayers of innocent 
children, and I knew that he knew that children 
get what they want from the Throne. 

“Well, that was the end of May, when Louie 
became a soldier, and by the end of July it was 
evident to all, even Louie’s mother, that Louie 
was going to make a long, long journey in the very 
near future.” 

“Where to?” asked Mudeliar Rao, but he was 
answered with a whispered, “Hold your blooming 
tongue, you Hindu hyena. ’ ’ And Father McGlin- 
chey continued: 

“Several times I crossed the trail of our Bishop 
and he would always ask smilingly for his ‘sick 


THE BISHOP’S STIPEND 


395 


soldier,’ and send through me this message, ‘Tell 
Louie to keep on. It hasn’t come yet.’ 

“When I would repeat the Bishop’s message 
Louie would smile that wan smile of his and say 
nothing. 

“On the afternoon of Our Lady’s Assumption, 
I was hastily summoned hack with the Holy Oils. 
I had brought Holy Communion that morning. I 
found Louie sinking rapidly, and he went Home 
with eyes agleam. I’d give a lot to glimpse what 
Louie saw.” 

Father McGlinchey stopped, then he said wist¬ 
fully : 

“I hope all you babas win to such a happy 
summons.” 

“Is that all?” asked Marcel, breaking the little 
silence that held the whiteclad group. 

“No; not quite,” said Father McGlinchey. 
“That evening I was called to the telephone, and 
instantly recognized the Bishop’s voice. He said: 
‘Father, I want you to tell our “sick soldier” that 
I received that request I asked him to pray for. 
I don’t mind telling you now I needed $10,000— 
that’s about Rs. 30,000—for a church debt, and 
this very afternoon from a most unexpected source 
came a check for $25,000.’ 

“Then I spoke: ‘Bishop Cusack, may I ask 
w T hen that check came to you?’ 

“ ‘Shortly after four. Why?’ 

“Because our little Louie died at four this 
afternoon.” 

“Neither the Bishop nor I said much more over 
that phone. But when Louie lay in St. Francis 
Xavier’s—such a tiny white box for such a great 


396 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


big church!—a pukka Bishop sat in the sanctuary, 
and a purple-and-white-and-gold Bishop gave the 
last blessing. And does any baba here have any 
doubt as to the identity of that Bishop? Marcel? 
Rozarinho? Mudeliar? Bandar? Visitatio? Wil- 
f rid-baba ? ’ ’ 

Only negative shakes greeted Father McGlin- 
chey’s foolish question. 

Then the Prefect’s bell rang, summoning the 
circle to bed, and the priest fed the butt of his 
cigar to begging “Rani.” She trotted at his side, 
chewing contentedly, while Father McGlinchey 
paced along with his pleasant thoughts. 

And far above him, kept vigil the pleasant stars 
that God has set to mark the way to that Home, 
where lately a Bishop thanked a Baba. 


THE LOST DOOR 


N OW legends are made of dreams and dreams 
are unreliable things. This is an unreliable 
thing my Christian boatman told me while we lay 
becalmed on the sunny Marmora. Across the blu¬ 
est of waves the gray gates and crumbling sea 
walls of old Constantinople stood in view, and we 
could make out, amid the domes and minarets of 
Mohammedanism, the great ball of hoary Santa 
Sophia, centuries ago a basilica, wherein The 
Word was duly honored, but today, and a sad 
myriad of yesterdays, a mosque, where fezzed 
Turks face Mecca and adore, as their Prophet 
mistaught them. 

****** 

It was the last Christian day of Constantinople^ 
and the Turks were within the smoking gates. 
The Byzantine women and children—most of them 
not to know in this world that they were widows 
and orphans—had fled from all quarters of the 
falling city to the vast basilica; for human pro¬ 
tection was failing them. They overflowed the 
ground floor and the arcades and the pillared gal¬ 
leries, and their frightened eyes were turned 
toward the High Altar, where old Father Isidore 
bent and prayed. Little Michael, kneeling at the 
priest’s feet, answered the prayers of the Mass. 

Never had Michael known such a night and such 
a day. In the midnight, when Greek fire blazed, 

397 


398 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


lie had seen his father and his strong brother, 
Julian, fall by dart and javelin on the walls, and 
through crazed bazaars and lanes he had wormed 
his way back to the stricken home and with his 
mother and fair Helen had watched from the flat 
roof the ever-reddening northern horizon, the sky¬ 
line over the Golden Horn, where the vessels of 
Mohammed were winning him his title of “The 
Conqueror.” Then the mother had said: 

4 ‘ Children, we shall die in Santa Sophia. ’’ 

It took them hours to force their way into the 
old familiar church. His mother and Helen had 
become separated and little Michael had found 
himself near the gates of bronze which opened into 
the sacristy. Within the sacristy was desolation 
and still abandonment, but in a far corner Michael 
saw old Father Isidore, whose Mass he had served 
so often. Old Father Isidore prayed alone, for 
the vigorous priests were with the remnants of 
the men. 

Then a trembling, wounded slave brought word 
that Father Constantine and Father Ambrose had 
been killed, and it was said even the Emperor lay 
dead, and there was fighting in this very quarter 
of the city. Father Isidore had calmly nodded, 
and he had said: 

“Little Michael, be brave now and assist me.” 

Michael had helped him vest, and the priest and 
acolyte had passed out into the gold and marble 
glory of the sanctuary where so often the Patri¬ 
arch and the Emperor had sat in glittering state. 
The last Mass in Santa Sophia had begun. 

But this Mass was unlike any other Michael had 
ever seen. It was unlike any ever said through- 


THE LOST DOOR 


399 


out a thousand years in Santa Sophia. It was like 
last night on the walls, and the terror in the ba¬ 
zaars. Michael looked fearfully behind him, and 
he saw no men. Bright-robed women and brighter 
children were not only in their reserved galleries, 
back of the green and reddish rows of marble pil¬ 
lars, but spread like an angry sea across the nave, 
where only the men might worship. Below the 
gilded saints, under the cedar and ivory doors, 
about the golden columns, before and behind and 
around the base of every marble pillar crouched 
these unfortunate intercessors. More wails than 
prayers went up. 

Then Michael, with fear tugging at his heart 
(for Michael was only thirteen), looked up to 
where under the immense dome the four great mo¬ 
saic archangels looked serenely down. His eyes 
sought and rested on his patron. The cry came 
unbidden: 

4 4 My archangel, defend me in battle! ’* 

Little Michael felt stronger on the instant, as 
though his winged protector hovered nearer, and 
in his very nearness was something of the calm¬ 
ness of eternity. 

Then when the priest spoke the words over 
bread and wine and brought the Lord down for 
the last time, there came wild mortal screams from 
all the tall, splendid doorways, and Mohammedan 
horsemen with reddened scimitars rode out of the 
sunlight into that last congregation; into and over 
the women and children. Reverence had held 
these Christians from a too near approach to the 
High Altar up to this time, but now with shrieks 
to God they broke the semicircle and came press- 


400 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


ing forward, and the warning cry went up from 
little Michael: 

1 ‘ Father Isidore, fly and save Our Lord from 
the infidels!” 

He heard a voice that he recognized as his 
mother’s repeat the cry: 

“Flee, Father Isidore! The Turks are slaying 
all. At least save God from their impious hands! ’ 9 

The old priest clutched the chalice over which 
he had just spoken the consecrating words, and 
the hesitating paralysis of age in the presence of 
horror seized him. A bearded Turk, splendid in 
gleaming armor of supreme rank, rode a white 
horse out of the very sacristy. Little Michael was 
the first to notice the horseman in the silver gilt 
doorway and he tugged at the priest’s alb. 

“This way, Father Isidore. The door into the 
gallery. Come, oh, come with God at once!” 

The mounted Moslem sighted the vested priest 
and the boy, and he spurred his horse forward. A 
woman, pushing her daughter before her under 
the horse’s hoofs, clutched at the reins, crying: 

“Michael, Helen and I bar his way. Fly with 
the Lord.” 

In an agonized flash, the boy saw his mother and 
fair Helen. But he obeyed her last command and 
swiftly piloted the dazed priest down the altar 
steps and toward the rich door of soft blue lapis 
lazuli and chastened gold that led to the gallery 
and safety. The bearded Mussulman, checked 
momentarily by the old hands that yet gripped 
the jeweled reins of his charger, hacked down the 
dead barrier and urged his horse after priest 
and boy. More Christians attempted to bar his 


THE LOST DOOR 


401 


way across that broad sanctuary, so their dear 
Lord might reach the door of blue and gold. 
Father Isidore stumbled, recovered himself with 
Michael’s aid and tottered forward. His eighty 
years were telling. 

“Within the door! Within the door is safety! 
Hasten!” cried Michael. 

“I can go no faster. I—I—” 

“You must save the Lord.” 

Father Isidore stopped and a great sob was in 
his voice: 

1 ‘ Where is the consecrated Host ? ’ ’ He held the 
chalice and empty paten. “I’ve lost Him.” 

Michael turned his back on the door to safety. 
He saw the bearded Turk and the red legs of his 
horse about to tower over them. And there on 
the stone floor lay the Host that had been dropped. 
His young limbs demanded flight. Then above the 
mounted Turk, above the pillared gallery, Michael 
caught sight of the great mosaic of his winged 
archangel, and he cried: 

* ‘ 0 Michael, you defended God once, and no less 
shall I. ’ , 

With a determined push he helped Father Isi¬ 
dore through the door. Then he dove under the 
crimsoned fetlocks. His small hand closed over 
the large white Host, and in an instant Jie had 
given His Lord protection, and himself Viaticum. 

The startled charger reared violently and his 
cruel hoofs came down, grew brighter yet, and he 
stumbled. His horseman checked him mightily 
and again the frightened beast reared and slipped 
on the floor. His splendid rider threw his hand 
against a ribbed marble pillar. When his horse 


402 


IN XAVIER LANDS 


steadied, he looked ahead to cut down the priest, 
but Father Isidore had disappeared. Where the 
fair blue lapis lazuli and chased gold door had 
been a moment before, now appeared a continuous 
marble wall. On it, in shining mosaics, a boy arch¬ 
angel, inlaid gold and inlaid blue, stood guard. 

Other Turks rode clattering across the sanctu¬ 
ary, and they quickly saluted the bearded horse¬ 
man. 

“Conqueror, we feared for thy safety,” they 
said. 

Mohammed II, still dazedly looking for his lost 
prey, half returned their salute with a sweep of 
his scimitar. 

“By Allah and his Prophet, the very door he 
darkened has vanished. I would have cut him 
down but for that Byzantine boy.” And the Sultan 
pointed to the small still form staining the sanc¬ 
tuary floor. ‘ ‘ He, like these dead dogs, threw him¬ 
self under A1 Borak’s very hoofs and near un¬ 
horsed me!” 

Thus Mohammed, the Conqueror, and his fol¬ 
lowers came into grim possession of Santa Sophia; 
but not of its Lord. 

###### 

Such was the legend my Christian boatman told 
me, as we lay becalmed on the sunny Marmora 
and could make out, amid the domes and minarets 
of a fading Mohammedanism, the great ball of 
hoary Santa Sophia, the famed sanctuary that was 
taken two score of years before our New World 
rose upon Columbus’ vision. When the breeze 
sprang up we sailed around the still walls of old 


THE LOST DOOR 


403 


Byzantium and into the Golden Horn, and later 
I stood under the great dome. 

My fezzed guide pointed out the supposed red 
imprint of Mohammed’s hand on the ribbed 
marble pillar, and he mentioned the lost door, as¬ 
serting it was an historical fact that Santa Sophia, 
the basilica, possessed one hundred and one doors, 
and Santa Sophia, the mosque, reveals an even 
hundred. 

Then he added the prophetic touch to the legend 
the boatman had told me. He told me of an old 
prophecy that has a new significance to-day when 
Allied masters hold Constantinople. It is this. A 
day will surely come, when the cross will replace 
the crescent, and at the close of the first new 
Mass in the restored basilica of Santa Sophia that 
lost door will appear and open, and out will step 
old Father Isidore, still guarding in his withered 
hand the chalice and its Precious Blood. He will 
with triumphant step cross the broad sanctuary 
and ascend the High Altar and there finish his 
long halted Mass. At the very end, his priestly 
duty done, he will die. 

So said my fezzed guide. But I, looking aloft 
to where the four great mosaic archangels still 
stand guard under the vast high dome, preferred 
to think otherwise. Rather, old Father Isidore 
will return again gloriously into those realms 
where all these happy, happy centuries a valiant 
little St. Michael has reigned amid the splendor¬ 
winged choirs of the Great Defenders of the honor 
of the Lord. 

THE END 


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MENT. Liguori. net , $o.qo. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Paper, *$o.c8. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Illustrated. 
Method of St. Alphonsus Liguori. 
*$0.15. 


4 


WAY OF THE CROSS, THE. Very 
large-type edition. Method of Sx. 
Alphonsus Liguori. *|o.2o. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Eucharistic 
method. *$0.15. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. By a Jesuit 
Father. *$0.25. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Method of Sr. 

Francis of Assisi. *$0.15. 

WITH GOD. Prayer-Book by Fatef.u La- 
sance. Im. leather, limp, red edges $1.75. 
YOUNG MAN’S GUIDE, THE. Prayer- 


Book by Father Lasance. Seal grain 
Cloth, stiff covers, red edges, $1.25; 
Im. leather, limp, red edges, $1.50; 
gold edges, $2.00. 

YOUR INTERESTS ETERNAL. Gar- 
esch£, S.J. net, $1.25. 

YOUR NEIGHBOR AND YOU. Gar- 
esche, SJ. net, $1.25. 

YOUR OWN HEART. Garesche, S.J. 
net, $1.25. 

YOUR, SOUL’S SALVATION. Gar¬ 
esche, S.J. net, $1.25. 


HI. THEOLOGY, LITURGY, HOLY SCRIPTURE, PHILOSOPHY, 

SCIENCE, CANON LAW 


ALTAR PRAYERS. Edition A: Eng¬ 
lish and Latin, net, §1.75. Edition B: 
German-English-Latin, net, $2.00. 

ANNOUNCEMENT BOOK. umo. 
net, $3.00. 

BAPTISMAL RITUAL. i2mo. net, $1.50. 

BENEDICENDA. Schulte, net, $2.75. 

BURIAL RITUAL. Cloth, net, $2.50; 
sheepskin, net, $3.75. 

CASES OF CONSCIENCE. Slater, 
S.J. 2 vols. net, $6.00. 

CHRIST’S TEACHING CONCERNING 
DIVORCE. Gigot. net, ^$2.75. 

CLERGYMAN’S HANDBOOK OF LAW. 
Scanlon, net, $2.25. 

COMBINATION RECORD FOR SMALL 
PARISHES, net, $8.00. 

COMMENTARY ON THE PSALMS. 
Berry, net, $3.50. 

COMPENDIUM SACILE LITURGLE. 
Wapelhorst, O.F.M. net, ^$3.00. 

ECCLESIASTICAL DICTIONARY. 
Thein. 4to, half mor. net, $6.50. 

GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE HOLY SCRIP¬ 
TURES. Gigot. net, lf$4.oo. 

GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE HOLY SCRIP¬ 
TURES. Abridged edition. Gigot. net, 
1 f$ 2 - 75 - 

HOLY BIBLE, THE. Large type, handy 
size. Cloth, $1.50. 

HYMNS OF THE BREVIARY AND 
MISSAL, THE. Britt, O.S.B. net, 
$6.00. 

JESUS LIVING IN THE PRIEST- 
Millet. S.J.-Byrne. net, $3.25. 

LIBER STATUS ANIMARUM, Or 
Parish Census Book. Large edition, size 
14X10 inches. 100 Families. 200 pages, 
half leather, net, $7.00. 200 Families. 

400 pp. half leather, net, $8.00; Pocket 
Edition, net, $0.50. 

MANUAL OF HOMILETICS AND 
CATECHETICS. Schuech-Lueber- 
mann. net, $2.25. 

MANUAL OF MORAL THEOLOGY. 
Slater. S.J. 2 vols. net, $8.00. 

MARRIAGE LEGISLATION IN THE 
NEW CODE. Ayrinhac, S.S. net, 
$2.50. 


MARRIAGE RITUAL. Cloth, gilt edges, 
net, $2.50; sheepskin, gilt edges, net, $3.75. 

MESSAGE OF MOSES AND MODERN 
HIGHER CRITICISM. Gigot. Paper. 
net, U$o.is. 

MISSALE ROMANUM. Benziger 
Brothers’ Authorized Vatican Edition. 
Black or red Amer. morocco, gold edges, 
net, $15.00; red Amer. morocco, gold 
stamping and edges, net, $17.50; red, 
finest quality morocco, red under gold 
edges, net, $22.00. 

MORAL PRINCIPLES AND MED¬ 
ICAL PRACTICE. Coppens, S.J., 
Spalding, S.J. net, $2.50. 

OUTLINES OF NEW TESTAMENT 
HISTORY. Gigot. net, TO2.75. 

PASTORAL THEOLOGY- Stang. net, 

H$ 2 . 25 . 

PENAL LEGISLATION IN THE NEW 
CODE OF CANON LAW. Ayrinhac, 
S.S. net, $3.00. 

PEW COLLECTION AND RECEIPT 
BOOK. Indexed. 11X8 inches, net, 
$ 3 -°°- 

PHILOSOPHIA MORALI, DE. Russo, 
S.J. Half leather, net, $2.75. 

PREPARATION FOR MARRIAGE. 
McHugh. O.P. net, $0.60. 

PRAXIS SYNODALIS. Manuale ^Sy- 
nodi Diocesanae ac Provincialis Ceie- 
brandae. net, $1.00. 

QUESTIONS OF MORAL THEOLOGY. 
Slater, S.J. net, $3.00. 

RECORD OF BAPTISMS. 200 pages, 
700 entries, net, $7.00; 400 pages, 1400 
entries, net, $9.00; 600 pages, 2100 

entries, net, $12.00. 

RECORD OF CONFIRMATIONS. 
net, $6.00. 

RECORD OF FIRST COMMUNIONS. 
net, $6.00. 

RECORD OF INTERMENTS. net, 
$6.00. 

RECORD OF MARRIAGES. 200 
pages, 700 entries, net, $7.00.; 400 pages, 
1400 entries, net, $9.00; 600 pages, 

2100 entries, net, $12.00. 

RITUALE COMPENDIOSUM. Cloth, 
net, $1.25; seal, net, $2.00. 

SHORT HISTORY OF MORAL THE¬ 
OLOGY, Slates, S,J. net, $0.75. 


5 


SPECIAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE OLD TESTAMENT. 
Gigot. Part I. net, ^$2.75. Part II. 
net, ^$3.25. 

SPIRAGO’S METHOD OF CHRISTIAN 
DOCTRINE. Messmer. net, $2.50. 


TEXTUAL CONCORDANCE OF THl 
HOLY SCRIPTURES. Williams, 
net, $5.75. 

WHAT CATHOLICS HAVE DONE 
FOR SCIENCE. Brennan. net, 
$1.5®. 


IV. SERMONS 


CHRISTIAN MYSTERIES. Bono- 
melli, D.D.-Byrne. 4 vols., net, $9.00. 
EIGHT-MINUTE SERMONS. I)e- 
mouy. 2 vols., net. $4.00. 

HOMILIES ON THE COMMON OF 
SAINTS. Bonomelli-Byrne. 2 vols., 
net, $4.50. 

HOMILIES ON THE EPISTLES AND 
GOSPELS. Bonomelli-Byrne. 4 vols. 
net, $9.00. 

MASTER’S WORD, THE, IN THE 
EPISTLES AND GOSPELS. Flynn, 

2 vols., net, $4.00. 

POPULAR SERMONS ON THE CAT¬ 
ECHISM. Bamberg-Thurston, S.J. 

3 vols., net, $3.50. 

SERMONS. Canon Sheehan, net, $3.00. 
SERMONS FOR CHILDREN’S MASSES. 

Frassinetti-Lings. net, $2.50. 
SERMONS FOR THE SUNDAYS 
AND CHIEF FESTIVALS OF THE 
ECCLESIASTICAL YEAR. Pott- 
geisser, S.J. 2 vols., net, $5.00. 


SERMONS ON OUR BLESSED LADY. 
Flynn, net, $2.50. 

SERMONS ON THE BLESSED SAC¬ 
RAMENT. Scheurer-Lasance. net, 
$2.50. 

SERMONS ON THE CHIEF CHRIS¬ 
TIAN VIRTUES. Hunolt-Wirth. net, 
$2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE DUTIES OF 
CHRISTIANS. Hunolt-Wirth. net, 
$2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE FOUR LAST 
THINGS. Hunolt-Wirth. net, $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE SEVEN DEADLY 
SINS. Hunolt-Wirth. net, $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE VIRTUE AND 
THE SACRAMENT OF PENANCE. 
Hunolt-Wirth. net, $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE MASS, THE SAC¬ 
RAMENTS AND THE SACRA- 
MENTALS. Flynn, net, $2.75. 


V. HISTORY. BIOGRAPHY. HAGIOLOGY, TRAVEL 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ST. IGNA¬ 
TIUS LOYOLA. O’Connor, S.J. net, 
$i-7S. 

CAMILLUS DE LELLIS. By a Sister 
of Mercy, net, $1.75. 

CHILD’S LIFE OF ST. JOAN OF 
ARC. Mannix. net, $1.50. 

GROWTH AND DEVELOPMENT OF 
THE CATHOLIC SCHOOL SYS¬ 
TEM IN THE UNITED STATES. 
Burns, C.S.C. net, $2.50. 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 

CHURCH. Brueck. 2 vols., net, 
$5-50. 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 

CHURCH. Businger-Brennan. net, 
$3.50- 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 

CHURCH. Businger-Brennan. net, 

H$o.75. 

HISTORY OF THE PROTESTANT 
REFORMATION. Ccbbett-Gas- 
qtjet. net, $0.85. 

HISTORY OF THE MASS. O’Brien. 
net, $2.00. 

HOLINESS OF THE CHURCH IN THE 
NINETEENTH CENTURY. Kempf, 
S.J. net, $2.75. 

LIFE OF ST. MARGARET MARY 
ALACOQUE Illustrated. Bougaud. 
net $ 2 . 75 . 


LIFE OF CHRIST. Businger-Brennan, 
Illustrated. Half morocco, gilt edges, 
net. Si5.00. 

LIFE OF CHRIST. Illustrated. Bus- 
inger-Mullett. net, S3.50. 

LIFE OF CPIRIST. Cochem. net, $0.85. 
LIFE OF ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA. 

Genelli, S.J. net, $0.85. 

LIFE OF MADEMOISELLE LE 
GRAS, net, $0.85. 

LIFE OF POPE PIUS X. Illustrated. 
net, $3.50. 

LIFE OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN. 

Rohner. net, $0.85. 

LITTLE LIVES OF THE SAINTS FOR 
CHILDREN. Berthold. net. So.75. 
LITTLE PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE 
SAINTS. With 400 illustrations, net, 

$2.OO. 

LIVES OF THE SAINTS. Butler 
Paper, $0.25; cloth, net, So.85. 
LOURDES. Clarke, S.J. net, $0.85. 
MARY THE QUEEN. By a Religious. 
net, $0.60. 

MIDDLE AGES, THE. Shahan. m,$3.oo. 
MILL TOWN PASTOR, A. Conroy, 
S.J. net, Si.75- 

NAMES THAT LIVE IN CATHOLIC 
HEARTS. Sadlier. net, $0.85. 

OUR OWN ST. RITA. Corcoran, 
O.S.A. net, $1.50. 


6 




PATRON SAINTS FOR CATHOLIC 
10 0 1H. Mannix. Each life separately 
in attractive colored paper cover with 
illustration on froDt cover. Each, 10 
cents postpaid; per 25 copies, assorted, 
**^1 per 100 copies, assorted, 

net , $6.75. Sold only in packages con¬ 
taining 5 copies of one title. 

For Boys: St. Joseph; St. Aloysius; St. 

Anthony; St. Bernard; St. Martin; 

St. Michael; St. Francis Xavier; St. 

Patrick; St. Charles; St. Philip. 

The above can be had bound in 1 vol¬ 
ume, cloth, net , $1.00. 

For Girls: St. Ann; St. Agnes; St. 

Teresa; St. Rose of Lima; St. Cecilia; 

St. Helena; St. Bridget; St. Catherine; 

St. Elizabeth; St. Margaret. 

The above can be had bound in 1 vol¬ 
ume, cloth, net , $1.00. 

PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE SAINTS. 
With nearly 4.00 illustrations and over 
600 pages, net , $5.00. 

POPULAR LIFE OF ST. TERESA. 
L’abbk Joseph, net , $0.85. 

PRINCIPLES ORIGIN AND ESTAB¬ 
LISHMENT OF THE CATHOLIC 
SCHOOL SYSTEM IN THE UNITED 
STATES. Burns, C.S.C. net , $2.50. 

RAMBLES IN CATHOLIC LANDS. 
Barrett, O.S.B. Illustrated, net , $3.50. 


ROMA. Pagan Subterranean and Mod¬ 
ern Rome in Word and Picture. By 
Rev. Albert Kuhn, O.S.B., D.D. 
Preface by Cardinal Gibbons. 617 
pages. 744 illustrations. 48 full-page 
inserts, 3 plans of Rome in colors, 84 
X12 inches. Red im. leather, gold 
side, net , $12.00 

ROMAN CURIA AS IT NOW EXISTS. 
Martin, S.J. net , $2.50. 

ST. ANTHONY. Ward, net , $0.85. 

ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. Dubois, 
S.M. net , $0.85. 

ST. JOAN OF ARC. Lynch, S.J. Illus¬ 
trated. net , $2.75. 

ST. JOHN BERCHMANS. Dele- 
haye, S.J.-Semple, S.J. net , $1.50. 

SAINTS AND PLACES. By John 
Ayscough. Illustrated, net , $poo. 

SHORT LIVES OF THE SAINTS. 
Donnelly, net , $0.90. 

STORY OF THE DIVINE CHILD. 
Told for Children. Lings, net , $0.60. 

STORY OF THE ACTS OF THE APOS¬ 
TLES. Lynch, S.J. Illustrated, net , 
$2.75. 

WOMEN OF CATHOLICITY. Sadlier. 
net , $0.85. 

WONDER' STORY, The. Taggart. 
Illustrated. Board covers, net , $0.23; 
per 100, $22.50. Also an edition in 
French and Polish at same price. 


VI. JUVENILES 


FATHER FINN’S BOOKS. 

Each, net , $i.oo. 

ON THE RUN. 

BOBBY IN MOVIELAND. 

FACING DANGER. 

HIS LUCKIEST YEAR. A Sequel to 
“Lucky Bob.” 

LUCKY BOB. 

PERCY WYNN; OR, MAKING A 
BOY OF HIM. 

TOM PLAYFAIR; OR. MAKING A 
START 

CLAUDE' LIGHTFOOT; OR, HOW 
THE PROBLEM WAS SOLVED. 

HARRY DEE; OR, WORKING IT 
OUT. 

ETHELRED PRESTON; OR, THE 
ADVENTURES OF A NEWCOMER. 

THE BEST FOOT FORWARD; AND 
OTHER STORIES. 

“ BUT THY LOVE AND THY 
GRACE.” 

CUPID OF CAMPION. 

THAT FOOTBALL GAME, AND 
WHAT CAME OF IT. 

THE FAIRY OF THE SNOWS. 

THAT OFFICE BOY. 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEAR¬ 
ANCE. 

MOSTLY BOYS. SHORT STORIES. 

FATHER SPALDING’S BOOKS. 

Each, net , $1.00. 

SIGNALS FROM THE BAY TREE. 

HELD IN THE EVERGLADES. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE SANDHILLS. 

THE CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. 


THE SHERIFF OF THE BEECH 
FORK 

THE CAMP BY COPPER RIVER. 
THE RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. 
THE MARKS OF THE BEAR CLAWS. 
THE OLD MILL ON THE WITH- 
ROSE. 

THE SUGAR CAMP AND AFTER 

ADVENTURE WITH THE APACHES. 

Ferry, net , $0.60. 

ALTHEA. Nran linger, net , $0.85. 

AS GOLD IN THE FURNACE. Cofus, 
S.J. net , $1.25. 

AS TRUE AS GOLD. Mannix. net , 
$0.60. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE SANDHILLS. 

Spalding, S.J. net , $1.00. 

BELL FOUNDRY. Schaching, net , $0.60. 
BERKLEYS. THE. Wight, net , $0.60. 
BEST FOOT FORWARD, THE. Finn, 
S.J. net , $1.00. 

BETWEEN FRIENDS. Aumerlf.. net , 
$0.8.5. 

BISTOURI. Melandri. net , $0.60. 
BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE. Tag¬ 
gart. net , $0.60. 

BOBBY IN MOVIELAND. Finn, S.J. 
net , $1.00. 

BOB O’LINK. Waggaman. net , $0.60. 
BROWNIE AND I. Aumerle. net , $0.85. 
BUNT AND BILL. Mulholland. net , 
$0.60. 

“ BUT THY LOVE AND THY GRACE.” 

Finn, S.J. net , $1.00. 

BY BRANSCOME RIVER. Taggart. 
net , $0.60. 


7 


CAMP BY COPPER RIVER. Spalding, 
S.J. net, $1.00. 

CAPTAIN TED. Waggaman. net, $1.25. 

CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. net, $1.00. 

CHILDREN OF CUPA. Mannix. net, 
$0.60. 

CHILDREN OF THE LOG CABIN. 
Delamare. net, $0.85. 

CLARE LORAINE. “ Lee.” net, $0.85. 

CLAUDE LIGHTFOOT. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.00. 

COBRA ISLAND. Boyton, S.J. net , 
$1.15. 

CUPA REVISITED. Mannix. net, $0.60. 

CUPID OF CAMPION. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.00. 

DADDY DAN. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 

DEAR FRIENDS. Nirdlinger. n, $0.85. 

DIMPLING’S SUCCESS. Mulholland. 
net, $0.60. 

ETHELRED PRESTON. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.00. 

EVERY-DAY GIRL, AN. Crowley, net, 
$0.60. 

FACING DANGER. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.00. 

FAIRY OF THE SNOWS. Finn, S.J. 
net, $1.00. 

FINDING OF TONY. Waggaman. net, 
$1.25. 

FIVE BIRDS IN A NEST. Delamare. 
net, $0.85. 

FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. By a Reli¬ 
gious. net, $0.85. 

FLOWER OF THE FLOCK. Egan, net, 
$1.25. 

FOR THE WHITE ROSE. PIinkson. 
net. $0.60. 

FRED’S LITTLE DAUGHTER. Smith. 
net, $0.60. 

FREDDY CARR’S ADVENTURES. 
Garrold, S.J. net, $0.85. 

FREDDY CARR AND HIS FRIENDS. 
Garrold, S.J. net, $0.85. 

GOLDEN LILY, THE. IIinkson. net, 
$0.60. 

GREAT CAPTAIN, THE. Hinkson. net, 
$0.60. 

HALDEMAN CHILDREN, THE. Man¬ 
nix. net, $0.60. 

HARMONY FLATS. Whitmire, net, 
$0.85. 

HARRY DEE. Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 

HARRY RUSSELL. Copus, S.J. net, 
$1.25. 

HEIR OF DREAMS, AN. O’Malley. 
net, $0.60. 

HELD IN THE EVERGLADES. 
Spalding, S.T. net, $1.00. 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. 
Finn, S.T. net, $1.00. 

HIS LUCKIEST YEAR, Finn. S.J. 
net, $1.00. 

HOSTAGE OF WAR, A. Bonesteel. 
net, $0.60. 

HOW THEY WORKED THEIR WAY. 
Egan, net, $0.85. 

IN QUEST OF ADVENTURE. Man¬ 
nix. net, $0.60. 

IN QUEST OF THE GOLDEN CHEST. 
Barton, net, $0.85. 


JACK. By a Religious, H.C.J. net, 
$0.60. 

JACK- 0 ’LANTERN. Waggaman. net, 
$0.60. 

JACK HILDRETH ON THE NILE. 

Taggart, net, $0.85. 

JUNIORS OF ST. BEDE’S. Bryson. 
net, $0.85. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. First 

Series. net, $0.85. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Second 
Series, net, $0.85. 

KLONDIKE PICNIC, A. Donnelly. 
net, $0.85. 

LEGENDS AND STORIES OF THE 
HOLY CHILD JESUS, Lutz, net, 
$0.85. 

LITTLE APOSTLE ON CRUTCHES. 

Delamare. net, $0.60. 

LITTLE GIRL FROM BACK EAST. 

Roberts, net, $0.60. 

LITTLE LADY OF THE HALL. Rye- 
man. net, $0.60. 

LITTLE MARSHALLS AT THE LAKE. 

Nixon-Roulet. net, $0.85. 

LITTLE MISSY. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 
LOYAL BLUE AND ROYAL SCAR¬ 
LET. Taggart, net, $1.25. 

LUCKY BOB. Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 
MADCAP SET AT ST. ANNE’S. Bru- 
nowe. net, $0.60. 

MAD KNIGHT, THE. Schaching. net, 
$.0.60. 

MAKING OF MORTLAKE. Copus, S.J. 
net, $1.25. 

MAN FROM NOWHERE. Sadlier. 

net, $0.85. 

MARKS OF THE BEAR CLAWS. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.00. 

MARY TRACY’S FORTUNE. Sad¬ 
lier. net, $0.60. 

MILLY AVELING. Smith, net, $0.85. 
MIRALDA. Johnson, net, $0.60. 
MORE FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. 

By a Religious, net, $0. 85. 

MOSTLY BOYS, Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 
MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY. Sadlier. 
net, $0.60. 

MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL. 
Sadlier. net, $0.85. 

MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY. Barton. 
net, $0.85. 

NAN NOBODY. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 
NED E.IEDER. Wehs. net, $0.85. 

NEW SCHOLAR AT ST. ANNE’S. 

Brunowe. net, $0.85. 

OLD CHARLMONT’S SEED-BED. 
Smith, net, $0.60. 

OLD MILL ON THE WITHROSE. 

Spalding, S.T. net, $1.00. 

ON THE OLD CAMPING GROUND. 

Mannix. net, $0.85. 

ON THE RUN. Finn, S. J. net, $1.00. 
PANCHO AND PANCHIT A. Mannix. 
net, $0.60. 

PAULINE ARCHER Sadlier. net, $0.60. 
PERCY WYNN. Finn, S.T. net, $1.00. 
PERIL OF DIONYSIO. Mannix. vet, 
$0.60. 

PETRONILLA. Donnelly, net, $0.85. 
PICKLE AND PEPPER. Dorsey, net 
$1.25. 


8 


PILGRIM FROM IRELAND. Carnot. 
net, $0.60. 

PLAYWATER PLOT, THE. Wagga- 
man. net. $i. 2 S. 

POLLY DAY’S ISLAND. Roberts, net, 
$0.85. 

POVERINA. Buckenham. net, $0.85. 

QUEEN’S PAGE, THE. Hinkson. net, 
$0.60. 

QUEEN’S PROMISE, THE. Wagga¬ 
man. net, $1.25. 

QUEST OF MARY SELWYN. Clem- 
entia. net, $1.50. 

RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. net, $1.00. 

RECRUIT TOMMY COLLINS. Bone- 
steel. net, $0.60. 

ROMANCE OF THE SILVER SHOON. 
Bearne, S.J. net, $1.25. 

ST. CUTHBERT’S. Copus, S.J. net, 
$ 1 . 25 - 

SANDY JOE. Waggaman. net, $1.25. 

SEA-GULL’S ROCK. Sandeau. net, 
$0.60. 

SEVEN LITTLE MARSHALLS. 
Nixon-Roulet. net, $0.60. 

SHADOWS LIFTED. Copus, S.J. net, 

SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK. 
Spalding, S.J. net, 81.00. 

SHIPMATES. Waggaman. net, $1.25. 

SIGNALS FROM THE BAY TREE. 
Spalding, S.J. net, $1.00. 

STRONG ARM OF AVALON. Wag¬ 
gaman. net, $1.25. 

SUGAR CAMP AND AFTER. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. net, $i.ao. 


SUMMER AT WOODVILLE. Sadlier. 
net, $0.60. 

TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE 
MIDDLE AGES, de Capella. net, 
$0.85. 

TALISMAN, THE. Sadlier. net, $0.85. 

TAMING OF POLLY. Dorsey, net, 

THAT FOOTBALL GAME. Finn, S.J. 
net, 81 -oo. 

THAT OFFICE BOY. Finn, S.J. net, 
81.00. 

THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY 
ONE. Taggart, net, 80.60. 

TOLD IN THE TWILIGHT. Salome. 
net, $0.85. 

TOM LOSELY; BOY. Copus, S.J. net, 
$1.25. 

TOM PLAYFAIR. Finn. S.J. net, $1.00. 

TOM’S LUCK-POT. Waggaman. net, 
$0.60. 

TOORALLADDY. Walsh, net, $0.60. 

TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. Wag¬ 
gaman. net, 81.25. 

TREASURE OF NUGGET MOUN¬ 
TAIN. Taggart, net, $0.85. 

TWO LITTLE GIRLS. Mack, net, 
$0.60. 

UNCLE FRANK’S MARY. Clemen- 
tta. net, 81.50. 

UPS AND DOWNS OF MARJORIE. 
Waggaman. net, 80.60. 

VIOLIN MAKER. Smith, 'net, 80.60. 

WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. 
Taggart, net, 80 85. 

YOUNG COLOR GUARD. Bonesteel, 
net, $o,6o. 


vn. NOVELS 

ISABEL C. CLARKE’S GREAT BUNNY’S HOUSE. Walker, net, 9 2.00. 


NOVELS. Each, net, 82.00. 
CARINA. 

AVERAGE CABINS. 

THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON. 
THE POTTER’S HOUSE. 
TRESSIDER’S SISTER. 

URSULA FINCH. 

THE ELSTONES. 

EUNICE. 

LADY TRENT’S DAUGHTER. 
CHILDREN OF EVE. 

THE DEEP HEART. 

WHOSE NAME IS LEGION. 

FINE CLAY. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS. 

THE REST HOUSE. 

ONLY ANNE. 

THE SECRET CITADEL. 

BY THE BLUE RIVER. 

ALBERTA: ADVENTURESS. L’Er- 
mite. 8vo. net, $2.00. 

AVERAGE CABINS. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
BACK TO THE WORLD. Champol. 
net, 82.00. 

BARRIER, THE. Bazin, net, $1.65. 
BALLADS OF CHILDHOOD. Poeros. 

Earls, S.J. net, 81.50. 

BLACK BROTHERHOOD, THE. Gar- 
rold, S.J. net, $2.00. 

BOND AND FREE. Connor, net, $0.85. 


BY THE BLUE RIVER. Clarke. 
net, 82.00. 

CARINA. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
CARROLL DARE. W’aggaman. n, 80.85. 
CIRCUS-RIDER’S DAUGHTER. 

Brackel. net, 80.85. 

CHILDREN OF EVE. Clarke. »,$2.oo. 
CONNOR D’ARCY’S STRUGGLES. 

Bertholds. net, 80.85. 

CORINNE’S VOW. Waggaman. net, 
$0.85. 

DAUGHTER OF KINGS, A. Hinkson. 
net, $2.00. 

DEEP HEART, THE. Clarke, net, 
$2.00. 

DENYS THE DREAMER. Hinkson. 
net, $2.00. 

DION AND THE SIBYLS. Keon. net, 
80.85. 

ELDER MISS AINSBOROUGH, THE. 

Taggart, net, 80.85. 

ELSTONES, THE. Clarke, net, 82.00. 
EUNICE. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
FABIOLA. Wiseman, net, $0.85. 
FABIOLA’S SISTERS. Clarke, n , 80.85. 
FATAL BEACON, THE. Brackel. 
net, 80.85. 

FAUSTULA. Ayscough. net, $2.00. 
FINE CLAY. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
FLAME OF THE FOREST. Bishop. 
net, $2.00. 


FORGIVE AND FORGET. Lingen. 
net , $0.85. 

GRAPES OF THORNS. Waggaman. 
net , $0.85. 

HEART OF A MAN. Maher, net , $2.00. 

HEARTS OF GOLD. Edhor. net , $0.85. 

HEIRESS OF CRONENSTEIN. Hahn- 
Hahn. net , $0.85. 

HER BLIND FOLLY. Holt, net , $0.85. 

HER FATHER’S DAUGHTER. Hink- 
son. net , $2.00. 

HER FATHER’S SHARE. Power, net , 
$0.85. 

HER JOURNEY’S END. Cooke, net , 
$0.85. 

IDOLS; or THE SECRET OF THE 
RUE CHAUSSE D’ANTIN. de Nav- 
ery. net , $0.85. 

IN GOD’S GOOD TIME. Ross, net , 
$0.85. 

IN SPITE OF ALL. Staniforth, net , 
$0.85. 

IN THE DAYS OF KING PIAL. Tag¬ 
gart. net , $0.85. 

IVY HEDGE, THE. Egan, net , $2.00. 

KIND HEARTS AND CORONETS. 
Harrison, net , $0.85. 

LADY TRENT’S DAUGHTER. 
Clarke, net , $2.00. 

LIGHT OF HIS COUNTENANCE. 
Hart, net , $0.8^. 

LIGHT ON THE LAGOON, THE. 
Clarke, net , $2.00. 

“LIKE UNTO A MERCHANT.” Gray. 
net , $2.00. 

LITTLE CARDINAL. Parr, net , $1.65. 

LOVE OF BROTHERS. IIinkson. net , 
$2.00. 

MARCELLA GRACE. Mulholland. 
net , $0.85. 

MARIE OF THE HOUSE D’ANTERS. 
Earls, S.J. net , $2.00. 

MARIQUITA. Ayscough. net , $2.00. 

MELCHIOR OF BOSTON. Earls, S.J. 
net , $0.85. 

MIGHTY FRIEND, THE. L’Ermite. 
net , $2.00. 

MIRROR OF SHALOTT. Benson, net , 
$2.00. 

MISS ERIN. Francis, net , $0.85. 

MR. BILLY BUTTONS. Lecky. w,$i. 6 s. 

MONK’S PARDON, THE. de Navery. 
net , $0.85. 

MY LADY BEATRICE. Cooke, net , 
$0.85. 

NOT A JUDGMENT. Keon. net , $1.65. 

ONLY ANNE. Clarke, net , $2.00. 

OTHER MISS LISLE. Martin, n , $0.85. 

OUT OF BONDAGE. Holt, net , $0.85. 

OUTLAW OF CAMARGUE. de La- 
mothe. net , $0.85. 

PASSING SHADOWS. Yorke. net , 
$1.65. 

PERE MONNIER’S WARD. Lecky. 
net , $1.65. 

POTTER’S HOUSE, THE. Clarke. 
net , $2.00. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS. Clarke, net , 
$2.00. 

PRODIGAL’S DAUGHTER, THE, AND 
OTHER STORIES. Bugg. net , $1.50. 

PROPHET’S WIFE. Browne, net.it 1.25. 


RED INN OF ST. LYPHAR. Sadliek 
net , $0.85. 

REST HOUSE, THE. Clarke, net , $2.00. 

ROSE OF THE WORLD. Martin, net , 
$0.85. 

ROUND TABLE OF AMERICAN 
CATHOLIC NOVELISTS, net , $0 85. 

ROUND TABLE OF FRENCH CATH¬ 
OLIC NOVELISTS, net , $0.85. 

ROUND TABLE OF GERMAN CATH¬ 
OLIC NOVELISTS, net , $0.85. 

ROUND TABLE OF IRISH AND ENG¬ 
LISH CATHOLIC NOVELISTS, net , 
$0.85. 

RUBY CROSS, THE. Wallace, net , 
$0.85. 

RULER OF THE KINGDOM. Keon. 
net , $1.65. 

SECRET CITADEL, THE. Clarke. 
net , $2.00. 

SECRET OF THE GREEN VASE 
Cooke, net , $0.85. 

SHADOW OF EVERSLEIGH. Lans- 
downe. net , $0.85. 

SHIELD OF SILENCE. Henry-Ruf- 
fin. net , $2.00. 

SO AS BY FIRE. Connor, net , $0.85. 

SON OF SIRO, THE. Copus, S.J. net , 
$2.00. 

STORY OF CECILIA, THE. Hinkson. 
net , $1.65. 

STUORE. Earls, S.J. net , $1.50. 

TEMPEST OF THE HEART. Gray. 
net , $0.85. 

TEST OF COURAGE. Ross, net , $0.85. 

THAT MAN’S DAUGHTER. Ross, net , 
$0.85. 

THEIR CHOICE. Skinner, net , $0.85. 

THROUGH THE DESERT. Sienkie- 
wicz. net , $2.00. 

TIDEWAY, THE. Ayscough. net , $2.00. 

TRESSIDER’S SISTER. Clarke, net , 
$2.00. 

TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD. 
Sadlier. net , $1.65. 

TURN OF THE TIDE, THE. Gray. 
net , $0.85. 

UNBIDDEN GUEST, THE. Cooke. 
net , $0.85. 

UNDER THE CEDARS AND THE 
STARS. Canon Sheehan, net , $2.00. 

UNRAVELING OF A TANGLE, THE. 
Taggart, net , $1.25. 

UP IN ARDMUIRLAND. Barrett, 
O.S.B. net , $1.65. 

URSULA FINCH. Clarke, net , $2.00. 

VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY, 
THE. Egan, net , $1.65. 

WARGRAVE TRUST, THE. Reid, net , 
$ 1 . 65 . 

WAR MOTHERS. Poems. Garesche, 
S.J. net , $0.60. 

WAY THAT LED BEYOND, THE. 
Harrison, net , $0.85. 

WEDDING BELLS OF GLENDA- 
LOUGH, THE. Earls, S.J. net , $2.00. 

WHEN LOVE IS STRONG. Keon 
net , $1.65. 

WHOSE NAME IS LEGION. Clarke. 
net , $2.00. 

WOMAN OF FORTUNE, A. Reid, net , 
$1.65. 


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